


Ochi Chernye

by Mimizuku9



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mystery, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:13:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 128,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimizuku9/pseuds/Mimizuku9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. A miserably unemployed Yao is more than happy to make a long overdue confrontation with his stalker Ivan. But what begins as an innocent fascination soon spirals into a bloody affair when Yao gets caught up in Ivan’s dangerous pursuit. With detectives Alfred and Kiku on their trail, will Yao and Ivan’s crimes ever catch up to them? Russia/China. USUK. Warning for bloody violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At First Glance

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This story contains gory violence, and is not for the faint-hearted.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: All character names are the ones Hidekaz Himaruya has either officially assigned or suggested for each character. Macau, however, has yet to be assigned one. I've decided to use 'Jin' as his human name.  
> Additionally, if you prefer to read 'Ochi Chernye' in Chinese, a translation by Zimnie Kanikului is available [here](https://tieba.baidu.com/p/5079747217).
> 
> Anyways, read on! And I hope you enjoy this story!

* * *

 

_Black eyes, passionate eyes,_

_Burning and beautiful eyes!_

_How I love you, how I fear you,_

_It seems I met you in an unlucky hour!_

 

* * *

 

' _Aiyah_... That did not go well…' Yao rested his head against the cool countertop, pulling his tie loose. He could still feel his legs trembling, the uneasiness in his stomach stirring as if he were still in that interview, cold eyes examining him and preying on him.

_(Mr. Wang, your record tells us you've lost your last two jobs because of 'violent outbursts'… Care to explain?)_

No, the interview had not gone well at all. And all because he had snapped a few times! Anyone in his position would have reacted the same if they had been in that same dreary office, that same boxed up place that reeked of morning coffee and cigarette smoke that was taken in secret during breaks. Frustration was bound to boil up in a space that small, a space so full of the same tired faces.

Yao felt his face burn up at the memory of having to explain this, irritated that there really was no other way people could see him. He was violent in their eyes, unpredictable. Really. Yao Wang – dangerous and unsuitable for a civilised workplace! He had never harmed anyone, never became physically violent. He couldn't even bring himself to swat a fly!

And yet.

_(I'm afraid we can't just hire you, considering your history…)_

Yao sighed against the countertop. He always worked hard, always responded fiercely when challenged, and kindly when accepted. But what he knew himself to be didn't matter anymore. It was what they told him, what had been decided for him the moment he let his honest words slip out of his mouth. Lose self-control for a second, and it's all gone.

'Hey!' A hand slapped Yao's back roughly, a brusque voice jolting Yao in his seat. He snapped his head up to the brunette on the other side of the counter, irritated just by the sight of him. Yong Soo. Perhaps the only person that ever stuck around Yao, or at the very least, bothered to talk to him.

'Man, this job stuff really matters to you, huh?' Yong Soo laughed, the sound too loud for Yao's comfort. Yao forced a smile, wondering why he had ever let this guy stay close to him. His smile faded into a grimace, no longer wanting to even pretend anymore. Yong Soo's expression softened, Yao immediately regretting not trying hard enough with his fake smile. It was hard to stay annoyed at a kid as devoted as Yong Soo. Irritating as he was, he _was_ the only guy to ever keep by Yao's side, even if his intentions were questionable.

'Why don't you make me that signature drink of yours…?' Yao said, straightening up in his seat and folding his arms. Yong Soo's eyes brightened, the smile returning to his face.

'Aw, man. You're going to love it this time, okay?' Yong Soo ducked down behind the bar, the sound of bottles clinking. 'Lately I've been adding this super secret ingredient… And Yao, let me tell you, it is the best drink ever now, okay? Like, trust me on that!'

'I believe you…' Yao said half-heartedly, stealing a surveying glance at Yong Soo's workplace, wary of the rough looking strangers seated nearby. The lights flickered uneasily, and the smell of tobacco smoke made the air stifling and overwhelming.

For a bar, it wasn't anything special. And considering it was in the shabby part of town, it wasn't particularly rough either. His cousin Jin had bought the place a few months ago, made it into a 'recreational centre' – if you want to call it that. It was more so a seedy den, coming alive at night when the cheap fluorescent signs glimmered, ice cold drinks sliding across the smooth countertop and the tables decked out with playing cards and rolled tobacco. Greasy strangers shuffled in with wads of cash, perfumed 'escorts' guiding them to the back of the bar if they hadn't lost it all in a game of poker.

It was as glamorous as you could hope for in this shithole of a town.

Glass hit the surface of the counter, drawing Yao's eyes back to Yong Soo. He watched the burgundy coloured drink slosh over the rim, and as Yao reached for the glass, Yong Soo grabbed his shoulder and leaned in.

'Dude…' A smile quirked on Yong Soo's lips. 'Behind you.'

Yao frowned, tilting his head towards the corner of the bar. He groaned.

' _Aiyah_! Again? What is wrong with that guy?' Yao felt his blood boil, the stuffy heat of the bar sticking to his skin. 'When did he even-' He huffed and turned back around before the man could catch him watching. 'I don't even know him!'

'Maybe he knows you.' Yong Soo shrugged, drying a glass with a towel absent-mindedly. A laugh burst out of him. 'Maybe he thinks you're a pretty lady!'

'Shut up!' Yao hissed, resisting the urge to glance back again. 'You want him to hear you?'

Yong Soo scoffed. 'It's your stalker, not mine.'

Yao pursed his lips, withholding the slew of curses that were ready to lash out. He gave in and stole a glance at the man again. His face was deathly pale, white-blonde hair giving the impression of an angel, or perhaps a ghost. It's a sight that left Yao wanting to look back for more, though he could never tell if it was out of admiration or morbid curiosity. The man turned his head to look at Yao, their eyes meeting briefly before Yao snapped his head back to the bar in a panic. Yong Soo laughed.

'Do you want me to go over there and tell him you like him, too?'

Yao gave Yong Soo a glare. 'Do you want me to tell Jin you've been pocketing change from the nightclub's earnings?'

'Ah, shit. Okay, forget what I said…'

Yao found himself looking at the glass on the counter, still full of the dark drink. He could see the man's reflection in it, warped and stretched over the glass. For nearly a month this man had been following Yao around, leaving his shadows and reflections to terrorise him. But he never got close, never attempted to approach Yao or talk to him. Only ever watching from afar, silent. It sent Yao's stomach churning like it did during the interview, the feeling of uneasiness that often came with being watched, being observed like prey. Why Yao had been picked out from the crowd, he wasn't sure.

Moments passed, and the reflection of the man continued to watch Yao. He felt a shiver crawl down his back, but he tried not to show it.

'Hey, uh…' Yong Soo leaned onto the counter, lowering his voice. 'You gonna do something about this Yao? To be honest, I'm starting to get a little freaked out. He looks like a total creep, man. You don't think he's after me, too?'

Yao scoffed, wiping the condensation off the ice cold glass. 'You want to go have a word with him?'

'Me? Fuck, no. You do it, man.'

'I'm not going alone.'

'And I'm not going anywhere near that weirdo. He was your stalker first, you should be the one to tell him to back off.'

Irritation grated at Yao. As always, Yong Soo was only ever involved if it convenienced him. Clingy when it suited him, and equally distant when it suited him. He pushed the drink towards Yong Soo.

'Fine, then. I'll take care of it myself.' Yao pushed himself off his seat, making his way towards the dimly lit corner of the bar. His thoughts raced by with scenarios, horrible and terrifying outcomes, things Yao could say to save his life if he had to. His heart started pounding wildly as he realised what situation he was getting himself into. This was a stupid, _stupid_ thing to do – but what else could Yao do? He wasn't going to live in the shadow of this strange man, and he certainly wasn't going to go to the police for a matter Yao could fix himself.

He swallowed down the nervousness that was overtaking him, clenching his fists and mustering up whatever anger, whatever ferocity he had left in him. He wasn't prey, and he wouldn't let this man think that for a second.

As he approached the table, the man looked up at him, violet eyes gazing in curiosity. They were wider, more innocent looking than Yao had expected. More angel than ghost, those eyes, the sight of them leaving Yao's throat dry. What was he here to say again?

The man continued to gaze in expectation, patient in waiting for Yao to say something. Yao cleared his throat, forcing a hoarse voice out of his lips.

'Hey, uh… Listen. I know you've been, uh… f-following me around, and… and...' Yao's legs were trembling, feeling – no, knowing – that there was something very off about this man. Unsettling, creepy, unnerving in his intent gaze. Ghoul-like and haunting, terrifying and -

The man smiled, softly as he spoke. ' _Ochi chernye_ …'

Tender. There was something tender about him, too, Yao realised, and the thought made his resolve melt away faster than it had appeared.

'W-what?' Yao shifted his balance, crossing his arms.

'Your eyes… they are very nice, _da_?' The man chuckled quietly, his words coated with a thick Russian accent. 'Please, sit.'

'I-' Yao stuttered, perplexed by the offer and startled by this man's fixation on his eyes. 'N-No! I didn't come here to sit, I came here to-'

'Sit.' The man asked again, though this time it sounded more like a demand than an offer. Yao felt his legs grow weaker, and took a seat in spite of the pride it cost him. He was going to talk to him, anyway. There wasn't a need to stand, no need to go on the offensive straight away, Yao thought to himself.

'What is your name?' The man asked.

'Why do you want to know?' Yao said, perhaps too abruptly. He anticipated an equally aggressive response, but only found the other man waiting patiently. 'Y-Yao.' He finally added.

_Why did I do that?_ Yao's hands fidgeted beneath the table, thoughts running through his mind in a delirious panic. _I wasn't supposed to be giving him my name, I wasn't supposed to be –_

'What's your name?' The question spilled out effortlessly, and perhaps involuntarily, out of Yao's mouth. He cursed himself for it, hating the curiosity that was guiding him. Or was it politeness? Fear? Yao didn't even know anymore. Perhaps all three.

The Russian chuckled. 'Now… shall I tell you what I tell most people?' He leant over the table, the smell of vodka lingering in the air. 'Or do you want to hear my truthful answer?'

'What do you tell most people?' Yao raised an eyebrow.

'Ah, I did not think you were the timid kind…' The man leant back.

'I'm not!' Yao snapped. 'Who are you anyway? What kind of a person has two names?'

The Russian fiddled with a small empty glass in his hands, his smile faltering as he trailed his gaze to the dark wood of the table. 'A kind of person who shouldn't exist.'

The two stayed quiet for a moment, Yao watching the other man turned the glass round and round in his hands with a faraway look on his face as the air around them bustled with raucous laughter and drunken slurs.

'Why are you following me?' Yao broke the silence delicately, his voice gentler now. Somehow he felt that this man wasn't just some deranged psychopath. Well, perhaps he was a psychopath, but Yao didn't think he meant any harm. Maybe it was something about his lilac eyes, or the way his voice carried a child-like softness in it.

The man looked up at him, his expression coy and shy. 'It's nice to have friends, isn't it?' He poured himself a shot of vodka from a bottle, the sharp scent piercing the air.

'Friends?' Yao repeated back dumbly, unsure what to make of such a statement. Did this guy really think he was Yao's friend? '...Yeah. I guess friends are nice.' He said, words measured out carefully.

'Mm, _da_!' The man hummed, a tender smile gracing his lips as he gulped down the vodka from the tiny glass. 'Would you like some?' He gestured with the glass.

'No, I'm fine.' Yao smiled weakly. He still hadn't answered his question, but Yao did not want to antagonize him by asking again. Perhaps calling the police really was the best course of action. Having affirmed this, Yao decided he would make a call as soon as he got home. For now, it seemed this man wasn't of too much danger.

The Russian set the glass down decisively and got up. 'I have to go now. We should do this again sometime, _da_?' He slung a heavy-looking bag over his shoulder. 'Until we meet again, _myshka_.'

'Wh- That's not my name!' Yao turned around in his seat, the Russian already making his way out. 'Wait!' The man turned to face him.

'What's your name? Your real one, I mean.' Yao found himself asking. Of all the questions he could have asked, somehow this felt most important, the most crucial for Yao. He needed a name for that gentle face, the unsettling presence that had been following him around for the past month, the strange voice that made him shiver in an odd way.

The man's pale face lit up. 'Ivan.' He said with a fond lilt in his voice, before promptly turning back around and leaving the bar, Yao's eyes never tearing off his back until he disappeared into the night.

'Ivan…' Yao mumbled to himself, so that he wouldn't forget. He almost regretted asking for his name, the prospect of reporting him to the police making him feel weirdly guilty. Before he was merely a deranged ghost of a man, a creep following him around town. Now he was Ivan, the child-like Russian that seemingly only wanted Yao's friendship.

'That man didn't pay for his drink…' Yong Soo's voice made Yao jump in his seat slightly. Yong Soo laughed, slapping Yao's back. 'Relax, man. He's gone. Anyway, what the hell happened between you two?'

'I… don't know.' was all Yao could manage to say.

'Did you tell him to back off?' Yong Soo grabbed his shoulders excitedly. 'Did you threaten to call the cops on him or something?'

'No...' Yao said, his eyes still stuck on the door of the bar. He shrugged off Yong Soo's hands. 'Um… I think I'm going to head home now.'

'You're not staying? You haven't even said 'hi' to Jin yet! Hold on, I'll bring him! I think he's upstairs in his office…'

Yao said nothing and left the table, ignoring Yong Soo's objections as he did so. He made his way past the crowd in the bar, shoving past tobacco stenched strangers to get to the exit. He opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit street, the cool night breeze tainted by a rotten odor. Yao covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. It was the wretched smell of this town, or at least, this particular part of town. The part where you didn't want to walk home alone – day or night. The part where all the shifty happenings of the city occurred. The part where strange pale faced men followed you into a bar and asked for your name.

Yao walked down the cracked pavement, wishing it had been cold enough for him to wear a coat to dig his hands into the pockets. Strangers weren't likely to trouble you if you were like that, as Yao had come to learn in the past few years that he had lived here. If you looked like you could be hiding a gun or a knife, no one bothered you. But walking like this, thin white shirt barely keeping the breeze from caressing his skin, he couldn't help but feel a little vulnerable and exposed to the night.

After walking a couple of blocks, the noise of Jin's nightclub fading away, the roads became quiet and desolate. Yao's stomach churned uneasily. He had walked this route before, but never at such an hour. The streetlights became more and more sparse, and the further Yao walked, the more he had begun to regret leaving the nightclub. He steered to the far right of the pavement at every alleyway he had passed, not trusting what may lurk in the pitch black shadows. He may have well been safer to stay the night at Jin's place. But it was too late now. He only had a few more blocks to go until he reached his apartment, anyway.

The rattling sound of a bin echoed in the street, Yao freezing in place. After a moment's silence, Yao felt silly for overreacting, sighing lightly and continuing to walk. It must have only been a rat scurrying, and yet, Yao's footsteps were quicker paced, panicked. He just wanted to get home as soon as possible.

The sound of emerging footsteps alerted him from behind, but before he could even turn around a hand had roughly grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him into the shadows. Yao yelped, kicking and elbowing the figure that had grabbed him. He felt a knife press to his throat and suddenly everything stilled. Blood pumped loudly in Yao's ears as he listened to the gruff voice speak into his ear.

'Whatever you've got, give it. Now.'

Scared to even breathe, Yao's trembling hands reached for his pockets. He pulled out his wallet.

'H-Here.' Yao croaked out, his hand shakily presenting the wallet.

Another figure emerged from the shadows and grabbed it, his coarse face partly illuminated by the moonlight, revealing a long scar across his cheek. He opened up the wallet and looked through it, eventually stuffing it into his own pocket. He looked up at Yao's face, studying him as he approached.

'You're quite the doll, aren't ya?' He grinned. Yao's heart stopped at that moment, an ugly realization seeping in.

'Just let me go! Please!' Yao begged shifting and struggling in the other man's grip, the knife still pressed threateningly against his throat. He had to find a way to get out of here, his mind lucidly racing through a million different possibilities, searching for an escape, an outcome that didn't end horribly.

'You can go…' The man stood with his face almost touching Yao's, his foul breath making Yao's stomach turn inside out. 'After I'm done playing with you, doll.'

'Go to hell!' Yao hissed, kicking the scar faced man away. The man fell onto the ground with a thud.

'You little bitch!' The man growled as he stumbled onto his feet.

Yao pushed back and rammed the figure holding the knife to his throat against the alleyway wall, hearing his grunt. The knife loosened temporarily in the man's grip, and Yao seized it. Decisively and without even a second passing by, Yao plunged the knife into the man behind him. He pulled it out with a sickening squelch and made a run for the street, only to be knocked down by the scar faced man.

'You'll pay for that little stunt, bitch.' The scar faced man snarled, straddling Yao, attempting to pry the knife out of his hands. Yao yelled and grabbed the man's ear with his other hand, digging his nails tightly into the flesh. The man howled in pain, his hold of Yao's armed hand easing. Yao pulled the knife back and thrust it into the man's neck, a spurt of hot blood spraying Yao's face. He cried out, yanking the knife out and stabbing him again. Again. Again. More blood spattered onto Yao, but he didn't care. All he wanted to do was gouge this man's eyes out, to hear him scream in pain. All Yao could see was blood, the musty smell of it coating the air. He stabbed and stabbed until his muscles ached, until the squish of the knife plunging into flesh could no longer be heard.

The scar faced man eventually fell to the side, blood no longer bubbling out of his throat. Yao got up to his knees, hand still holding onto the bloody knife tightly. Remembering the other man, he whipped around, expecting to find him ready to pounce. But the other man was gone, a trail of blood disappearing into the black abyss of the alleyway.

Yao looked back to the scar faced man, the knife suddenly dropping from his trembling hand. He was suddenly aware of his own ragged breath, air heaving in and out of him loudly in the stillness of the night. The blood had begun to pool around the corpse near him, and Yao felt a cry break out from his throat. Tears spilled from his eyes, adrenaline ebbing away only to leave behind remorse. What had he done?

He stood up on wobbly legs, looking down to find his shirt completely soaked by that man's – no, that _pig's_ – blood. He deserved it, Yao thought bitterly. He deserved every ounce of pain, if not more. Yao wasn't a murderer. No, this was all self-defense. Yao had every right to bear his blood-soaked shirt without guilt. And yet, all Yao could do in that instant was fall to his knees and sob brokenly.

Footsteps echoed behind Yao, slow and leisurely in their pace. Yao sat still, his mind urging him to pick the knife up, but his body feeling too dead, too hollow, to do anything other than stay there motionless.

'Ah, _myshka_ , what have you done?' A pair of cold hands gripped his shoulders from behind him, one hand traveling up to smooth the hair away from Yao's face. Yao looked up, his gaze meeting a pair of lilac eyes.

'Ivan…?' Yao whispered weakly, his voice barely audible. Ivan only smiled tenderly and lifted Yao to his feet.

'All you needed to do was say the word and I would have done it for you…' Ivan hummed, resting his head on Yao's shoulder.

'What do you mean?' Yao said shakily, turning around to face Ivan. 'What are you doing here-'

'Shh…' Ivan wiped the tears off of Yao's cheeks, smearing flecks of blood as he did so. 'I think it is best if we say nothing more. A dead man will not dispose of himself, da?' He punctuated the question with a child-like lilt, as if this was all merely a game.

'What are you saying?' Yao looked at Ivan incredulously, his pale face glowing in the moonlight like that of a ghoul. Ivan's hands casually proceeded to unbutton Yao's bloodied shirt. Yao grabbed his hands. 'What the hell are you doing?' He snapped.

'We'll have to burn your clothes.' Ivan looked to Yao innocently, as if the prospect was not by any means abnormal. 'You can wear my coat.' He shrugged off his coat – an unusual choice for July weather – and handed it to Yao. 'But we have to act fast, _da_? Someone could walk by at any second.'

'But… they attacked me.' Yao refused the coat.

'That's not what it looks like from here…' Ivan turned Yao to look at the bloodied mess he had made. The scar faced man, doused in crimson red, was no longer a man anymore. He was a butchered animal, flesh cut and torn at the abdomen, chest punctured several times. His eyes were dark, bloody sockets. They had been gouged out.

_When did I do that?_ Yao's head started to feel light, something bitter and sour rising up in his throat. _How did I…_ Yao looked at his hands, blood stained and wet. His knees gave way as Yao fell to the ground and heaved, his throat burning as he vomited.

Ivan held the hair off of Yao's face and muttered in Russian, words Yao could only guess were meant to comfort him, though it did anything but that. When Yao's throat no longer expelled what felt like battery acid coming out of his mouth, he stood back up, his body sweating and trembling all over.

'W-Why are you doing this?' He asked shakily.

'Hm?' Ivan's lilac eyes lit up in question. 'Why? Because we are friends, _myshka_.'

'As if!' Yao snapped, though his voice still wobbled unsteadily. 'No sane person would help me, let alone a stranger! What is it you want? Money? A place to stay? What does your silence cost me?'

'Ah, _ochi chernye_ … You wound me. I offer help and you say such things? Nice friends don't do that…' His eyes glowered in the dark, his expression turning cold and vacant. Yao felt the hot, sticky blood on his skin start to dry and cool, the blood in his veins running cold.

'N-No, they don't…' Yao said cautiously, softening his tone. 'I'm sorry.' He watched Ivan's expression warily, relief sweeping over him when Ivan's amethyst gaze eased and became gentle again.

'It's okay, _myshka_.' Ivan smiled, patting Yao's cheek. 'Now why don't I show you my technique for getting rid of the bodies, _da_? I think you'll catch on quickly!' A lighthearted chuckle left Ivan's lips.

Yao's heart leapt into his throat at the sight, though he couldn't say for sure if it was entirely out of fear. He nodded weakly and returned the smile, which in spite of the dread that had begun to sprout in his chest, felt genuine. His whole body was shaking, his legs feeling heavy and dead, his head aching as if a mallet had thrashed it.

And yet, somehow... Yao had never felt so alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem excerpt at the beginning is from an English translation of a Russian poem titled 'Ochi Chernye' or 'Dark Eyes', by Yevhen Hrebinka.


	2. Poison in the Blood

The heavy scent of rotting flesh made Alfred gag, forcing him to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve until Kiku handed him a mask and gloves, muttering a quiet apology for not preparing him for this sooner. But even with the mask, the stifling odor sickened Alfred.

 _You never get used it…_ He thought glumly, bracing himself for the sight he would see when they pulled back the sheet from the body. What would it be this time? A flayed man? Insides spilling from the belly? Missing arms and legs? Alfred had seen it all in the last four years he had been a detective, he had begun to anticipate bodies butchered and torn apart like rag dolls. Homicide wasn't an easy department to work in. But solving cases, catching the 'bad guy', was an almost child-like thrill that Alfred couldn't live without. It was like fuel to Alfred, kept him running even when the job had him sleepless at night.

Kiku pulled back the sheet from the alleyway ground, the putrid smell intensifying. The body hadn't been found for a while, the man's skin sallow and bloated. Alfred spotted the dark pool of dried blood on his abdomen, and was somewhat relieved that this was the only injury the man had suffered. Blood loss was a relatively pleasant death when other, more _creative_ options were available. Alfred shivered a little, and Kiku seemed to notice this.

'Is something wrong?'

'N-no. I'm fine.' Alfred nodded, kneeling down to get a closer look at the stab wound, inspecting the shape of it and trying to gauge the angle at which it had been inflicted. He sighed. 'Name?'

'Randall Bradford. Previously convicted for armed robbery and burglary, but he doesn't normally work alone. He's a member of the Black Phoenix gang.'

'You think this was a gang killing?' Alfred looked up to Kiku's expressionless eyes. He often wondered if Kiku was like that inside, if he looked at a corpse and felt nothing, but he never asked. Kiku was a very private man, even to his closest of friends.

'It's likely. Only…' Kiku cast his eyes back to the corpse.

'It doesn't look like it.' Alfred finished his trailing thought. 'This guy should be full of holes. All he's got is this.' He pointed towards the stab wound. 'Not even fatal unless you let it bleed out.'

'There was a blood trail, too.' Kiku added.

'Show me.' Alfred got up, the rotten scent nothing more than background noise now. His mind was locked onto the dead man, the evidence that had been left behind from his death, and the dissipating trace of his killer. He had a beast to catch.

* * *

Yao awoke to the faint whir of an engine, distant and muffled from where Yao was curled up beneath the sheets. He groggily opened his eyes, thinking in a haze he must have passed out at the bar and was dragged home by Yong Soo, the previous night nothing but a foggy dream that he couldn't quite recall. He searched his memory, wincing at the thrumming ache in his head as he did so. Then, as if a bucket of scalding hot water had hit him, the image of a bloodied and torn corpse sent his eyes wide awake. The wet, sticky feel of congealing blood on his hands. The sound of flesh ripping. Cold, pale hands cradling his face.

Yao propped himself up, a familiar sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach rising. He looked down at his shirt, finding an oversized white t-shirt instead. A heavy white coat covered his lap. Yao felt a fearful cry escape his throat, high-pitched and broken as reality began to settle. He threw the coat off hastily and stood on the rough floor with his bare feet, nearly losing his balance as he did so.

The room was empty, dark save for the slim streams of light that escaped through the boarded up windows. The door, invitingly left ajar, led Yao to the dim hallway outside. The whirring sound echoed once again, drawing Yao down a flight of stairs, the first step groaning loudly. Yao froze as the whirring sound momentarily stopped, the sound of Yao's pounding heart counting the seconds until the strange sound resumed. He felt his breath release quietly. He gently - ever so carefully - took the next step, afraid that the next creak would give him away. Relieved that no sound had been made, he continued down the stairs.

Having made it to the landing, Yao spotted a door at the end of the hallway, daylight glowing through its hinges. Hope fluttered in his chest. It was his way out, away from the grasp of Ivan's ice cold hands. The man was sick, Yao thought as he softly stepped across the hallway, slowly making his way toward the door. He felt bad for betraying him like this, running away – but Yao didn't want to spend the rest of his likely short life as Ivan's little pet. One he could torment and then shower with affections. One he would eventually grow weary of, and then what? Yao did not want to be the next body he disposes of. He had seen it in those gentle lilac eyes, a child-like glee at the sight of Yao's blood and tear soaked face. There was a monster lurking beneath that gentle smile.

He was approaching the door, the whirring sound intensifying as he got closer to a doorway. Ivan was in there, doing god-knows-what, and Yao would have to pass by that room to get to his only escape. He swallowed, his mouth drying up as he mustered up the nerve to peek into the room. He pressed his head against the wall and slowly tilted his head into the room.

The room resembled one of a workshop, tools and drills scattered across various shelves and on top of cardboard boxes. A single flickering light was centred above a metal table, illuminating a sight that made Yao's stomach twist and wrench. A limp, sallow body had been laid onto the table, blood dripping off the edges. Its legs had been sawed off, the white bone having been cut through cleanly and precisely. The man's right hand was cut up into small segments, like a doll that had been taken apart, piece by piece. Blood spattered onto the wall as Ivan pressed the chainsaw into the dead man's left forearm. The sound of muscle and sinew being torn made Yao involuntarily whimper, the overwhelming metallic smell making him dizzy.

The whirring stopped, Ivan looking up at Yao. ' _Dobroe utro, myshka_!' He smiled. 'Just let me finish cutting this arm off and I'll make you some breakfast, _da_?'

Yao flinched and stumbled back, his legs suddenly feeling numb and heavy. He turned towards the front door and ran, breath ragged and panicked as he tried to fight his light-headedness, willing himself to not collapse. His foot snagged at a large splinter in the floor, his body clumsily falling onto the floor as a stinging sensation seared his foot. A hand clamped down on his back, grabbing his shirt and picking him up.

'N-no!' Yao yelled, punching and kicking Ivan with whatever strength he had left. 'Let me go!'

'Yao…' Ivan glared with a darkened expression, the tender smile long gone. 'I thought we had an understanding…'

'What are you talking about?! You're a murderer! You're a fucking butcher!' Yao screamed, hoping maybe someone might hear, although a sinking feeling in his stomach told him that no one would.

'Did you forget already?' Ivan stood there, Yao's punches doing nothing to him, as if his chest was a stone wall. 'The mess you left in that alleyway. The one I helped you clean up?'

Yao's thrashing subsided, remembering the feel of the knife in his hands and the blind rage that had consumed him when he sliced that man apart.

_That wasn't me. It couldn't have been me._

Yao remembered the heavy weight of the scar faced man's body as he dragged him across the gravel. He remembered the feel of Ivan's cold hands as they wiped away the blood splotches from Yao's face, as they guided him into bed. He recalled the warmth of Ivan's coat blanketing over him, the images of gouged out eyes haunting his sleep.

_I'm not a murderer… I'm not like him._

But Yao couldn't lie to himself. It was over, he knew that. He had gotten himself involved in something he couldn't get out of, and like a butterfly trapped in the spider's web, there was nothing he could do but wait for his slow death. Wait for Ivan to approach him and sink his fangs into him, wait for the venom to seep into Yao's veins and kill him, leisurely and gradually. He was nothing more than prey now.

Ivan, almost as if having understood this in Yao's teary eyes, loosened his grip on Yao's shirt and offered a weak smile. 'I'm glad you remembered, _myshka_. Now, why don't we eat some breakfast?'

* * *

Yao pushed the sausage around on his plate, his empty stomach begging for it, but his mouth threatening to spit it back out in disgust. He couldn't help but wonder if this pig had also been butchered by Ivan, or if perhaps it wasn't a pig at all, but the flesh of his latest kill. What kind of monster would he be living with now? What cruel and painful death was waiting for Yao? How long until then? The questions roamed around uneasily in Yao's head, an acidic taste rising up in his throat.

'You have not touched your food. Is something wrong?'

Yao snapped his eyes up at Ivan fiercely, holding his gaze for a painfully silent moment.

Ivan's smile softened. '… If you are not hungry, that is fine. I can always make something for you later.'

Yao cast his eyes back down to his plate, feeling suddenly very self-conscious as Ivan's eyes watched him carefully. He shifted the food on his plate once more, considering taking a bite, but then deciding against it. He set the fork down.

'Why did you kill that man?' Yao looked back up at Ivan, staring straight into his eyes, although they made Yao nervous and admittedly, quite terrified.

Ivan's eyes widened in surprise for a moment, as if he had forgotten about the severed corpse lying on his work table. 'Ah, him…' His expression became distant, looking as if he was gazing at something far, far away. 'He was a terrible man…' He murmured softly.

'What did he do?'

Ivan's lilac eyes snapped back to Yao, glazed over with a kind of sadness he had not seen in Ivan before. 'I made him suffer for it. And now, he can't hurt anyone. Ever again.' Yao felt his blood run cold, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Ivan, having noticed this, blinked and smiled. ' _Izvini_. I don't like talking about such things.' He got up from his chair. 'Finish your breakfast. There is still much work for me to do. If you like, you can join me and help, _da_?' He chuckled and left the room, the sound of the chainsaw starting up again after a moment's silence. Yao was left sitting there, staring vacantly into his plate as Ivan's heavily accented words rang in his head, unsure what to do with that voice that lingered.

* * *

 

Yao felt his whole body melt as the hot water doused him, and for a moment –if he closed his eyes – he could almost fool himself into thinking he was still back in his apartment, safe and comfortable. His hands unsullied by blood. He could pretend that the wispy streams of red that swirled down the drain as he rinsed his hair was nothing more than coppery dirt. That the whirring sound emanating from downstairs was merely the washing machine, cleaning his shirt for the next interview he may have to attend.

But it was a fleeting and short-lived moment. The water had started to become lukewarm, Yao opening his eyes to turn up the rusty dial for hot water. The shower continued to cool, leaving Yao irritated as his only pleasant moment in this house had become an uncomfortable one. He pressed the dial further, only to be suddenly doused in ice cold water. Yao shrieked in shock and turned off the shower, shivering as he hopped out and wrapped himself in a stale smelling towel – the only one he could find.

Muttering curses at the shower, Yao put on a fresh set of clothes – another oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that hung loosely on his hips. He tugged at the drawstring and clacked his tongue in annoyance as the shirt clung to his wet skin. He tied his hair into a sloppy ponytail, the end of it dripping down his back. Everything was starting to irritate him, and Yao's patience with this jailhouse was beginning to wear thin.

He swung the bathroom door open and made his way downstairs, the rough texture of the floor no longer grating the soles of his hardened feet. It had been four days since he woke up here… or was it five? The days had begun to blur together along the way, and Yao had felt like it had been an eternity since he had last seen the sun. Ivan had made sure there was not a window or door left unboarded or locked. He made sure Yao could not even see the freedom that taunted him. The freedom that Yao could not have even if his captor had dropped dead the next morning.

Yao hurried by the room from which the whirring was coming from, having learnt by now to never look into that room, even when Ivan called out a 'good morning' or 'hello' to him. He only had to hear the sound and his imagination did the rest for him. He walked into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge, trying to ignore the gory images conjured up by the buzzing of the chainsaw as it dug into flesh. Picking up an apple, he bit into it and focused on the pleasant taste of it, its fresh fragrance. But no matter how hard he tried, the taste was tainted by the musty smell of blood in the air.

 _This whole house reeks of it…_ Yao thought bitterly, no longer hungry and throwing the half-eaten apple into the bin. It was a waste, but Yao stopped caring by this point. Food was no longer a luxury. It was merely a necessary task to keep himself alive and breathing, although he didn't quite know why he still bothered.

The whirring halted, the house going quiet. _It must be around noon, now._ He could tell the time just by the noise – or lack of – that emanated from that room. Ivan was always busy in the mornings hacking away at his latest victim, and by the time it was noon, the whirring would stop. Ivan would pop out of the room and ask Yao if he was hungry for lunch. When light no longer streamed from behind the windows, Ivan would leave, heavy bag slung over his shoulder - his tools, perhaps. When Ivan returned a few hours later, it was with a large body bag. Yao never asked who it was or what they did, eating the dinner Ivan had prepared silently and with his eyes cast down.

'Are you hungry, _myshka_?' Ivan's face peeked out of the work room, flecks of blood dusting his cheeks.

'No.' Yao replied curtly, although his answer didn't matter much. Ivan chuckled.

'Let me go wash up and I'll be down to make something for you, _da?_ '

Yao sat himself begrudgingly at the kitchen table, tapping his fingers against the wooden surface. The days were long and endless here, as if he were trapped in a recurring nightmare that he could never wake up from. He wondered if anyone was looking for him, if they thought he was dead. He was already dead, as far as Yao was concerned. It was just a matter of when. Yao felt his insides twist at the thought. Waiting was perhaps worse than the actual demise.

Ivan returned into the kitchen, humming an unfamiliar tune as he shuffled around the kitchen to prepare lunch. He opened the freezer and pulled out a heavy box, carefully considering before picking out frozen slabs of pink meat. Yao waited with his eyes fixed on the wooden floor, losing himself in the familiar sound of a pan sizzling and the smell of meat frying. It settled his nerves slightly, and found himself digging in straight away when Ivan placed a plate of what Yao could only assume was fried pork onto the table. He scarfed the food down hungrily, not having quite realized until now just how hungry he was. He picked up a strip of meat with his fork, catching Ivan's gaze just as he was about to put it in his mouth. He was watching him. Staring, like hawk focused in on its prey. Yao shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

'You like it?' Ivan's gaze remained fixed on Yao as he spoke, a small smile gracing his lips.

Yao set his fork down, a sudden thought striking him as he looked back at the plate in front of him. Pork, again. Or at least… that's what Yao assumed it was. Ivan had never actually told Yao what exactly he was eating. Yao felt his stomach lurch, a metallic taste in his mouth as an ugly realization began to sink in.

Almost without thinking, the question left his lips. 'This is human meat, isn't it?'

'Hm?' Ivan's lilac eyes lit up in gentle surprise. 'Human meat…?'

'You've been feeding me your victims, haven't you?' Yao continued shakily, not sure just how much more he could take in this house. If the sound of limbs being torn off wasn't enough, then being fed them unknowingly was certainly extreme enough. 'And I'm next, right? I'm your next dinner, you're just waiting until I get fat and tasty enough.' Yao hissed, frustrated that all he was getting in return was a lost expression, ever so innocent looking.

' _Myshka…_ ' Ivan's voice spoke sweetly, as if to placate Yao, although it only heightened the hysteria that was overtaking him. Yao exhaled sharply, panic spreading across his chest. It was unnerving, to have such a gentle face smile at you, while you waited _and waited_ for the day they would finally get tired of you. While you waited for the day they would bring a knife to your throat and slit it open. Just like then, wasn't it? The scar of Yao's back itched, reminding him what happened when you no longer served a purpose, no longer filled a role they wanted you to fill. Yao would not wait for it, would not let it happen again.

Yao grabbed the knife and held it to his wrist. 'You want a taste of my blood before you butcher me? A little test to see if I'm ripe enough? Hm?' He pressed the knife onto the delicate skin of his wrist, skin breaking and blood forming. Yao grit his teeth at the searing pain. 'Go on! Have a bite!' He screamed at Ivan, whose brows had begun to furrow slightly. 'Come on! Kill me! Kill me now, you fucking butcher! Or I'll do it myself!'

The deep red blood streamed down his arm, drops splattering and soaking into the wooden floor. His vision started to haze and blur at the edges, his screaming voice disembodied and oh so far away…

A cold hand pressed onto the open wound on his wrist. 'Don't be silly, _myshka._ ' Ivan pulled the knife out of Yao's weakening grasp. He was towering over Yao now, although Yao could not recall him getting up from his seat. 'I would not feed you the meat of the monsters that I slaughter… Who would want to eat them?' A chuckle echoed in the kitchen, ringing in Yao's ears like a bell in the wind. He glanced down at his wrist, throbbing and burning against the pressure of Ivan's ice cold hand.

'Let… go…' He murmured faintly, trying to shake off Ivan's grasp, but finding it hard to even move his fingers. Why couldn't he let him bleed out? Yao could feel it, sleepiness tugging at him, inviting him to close his eyes and fall away into a darkness he couldn't wake up from. He so badly wanted to fall into it, to go away peacefully, but Ivan kept him anchored here in this horrid place.

Ivan tore off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it tightly around Yao's wrist, humming in Russian, the words taunting Yao even though he could not understand them. Ivan would not let him die so easily. No, this wasn't any fun, was it? Yao would have to wait his turn, wait for the special demise Ivan was preparing just for him. Yao would have to wait… and wait…. and...

A black curtain fell over Yao's eyes, but he knew they would rise up again. He would not leave this house of death just yet.


	3. A Monster

The sound of heavy boots against the downstairs floor sent Yao eyes snapping side open. He shot out of the bundle of blankets, an ache searing through his head as he did so. He glanced at the boarded up window, noting that there wasn't any daylight coming through the wood's tiny crevices. Ivan must be leaving around now for his 'nightly errands'. The sound of the door unlatching and opening rang in Yao's ears. He was being left alone again, the thought causing panic to sprout in his chest.

Yao scrambled out of bed and ran out to the stairway, the world tumbling and turning in sickening swaying motions, so much that Yao had to hold onto the stairway banister to keep balance. 'Wait!' He yelled weakly, his head throbbing as he stumbled down the stairs.

Ivan stood still at the door, head turned to Yao with his brows slightly furrowed. Yao stopped at the foot of the stairs, breathless and unsure what he was even trying to do. He had rushed here almost on pure instinct, but not to escape – he knew that was futile. Rather, it was a feeling of not wanting to be left here, alone in this rotten smelling prison. He had spent enough nights in this place, cold and surrounded by nothing but dusty broken furniture and the knowledge that severed bodies rested here with him. He wanted a different kind of escape, a kind where he could return to something familiar, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. The night breeze lingered in from the open door, teasing Yao's neck as he longed for the fresh air and the open sky.

'Please…' Yao said, voice unsteady. 'Don't leave me here.' Ivan's eyes gazed back coldly, unfeeling and clinical in the way they studied him, his eyes traveling down to Yao's bandaged wrist. Yao shivered.

'You should get back to bed.' Ivan spoke softly. 'Your wound hasn't healed yet.' He turned back to the open door. 'I'll be back in a few hours.'

'No!' Yao lurched forward, grabbing the trail of Ivan's white scarf. Ivan flinched, tugging the scarf away, but Yao held on tenaciously, taking hold of the sleeve of Ivan's coat as well. 'You can't! You can't just leave me locked up in here!' Yao felt tears well in his eyes, an overflow of bottled up frustration threatening to spill. 'Please! Just take me with you! I won't try to escape! I promise!'

Ivan looked down at Yao, his expression stoic but his eyes gleaming in a way that made Yao's stomach twist and turn. Frantic, he gripped the sleeve tighter, as if it would somehow keep Ivan anchored here. 'I…I can help you!' Yao said. 'Whatever it is you need to get done, I can help! Carrying bodies, cutting them up even! Just... please…' Yao burned his eyes into Ivan's, as if this could somehow convince him better. 'Don't leave me here.'

Ivan kept his gaze on Yao, a smile breaking out onto his lips. ' _Ochi chernye_ … You flatter me!' Ivan chuckled, prying away Yao's hands and walking down the hallway to open a closet door. He pulled out a pair of boots – similar to his own – and a black parka. He handed them to Yao, who stood there with his eyes wide in surprise. 'Today you and I work together! You can put to practice those techniques I showed you, da? And I'm sure you'll learn plenty of new things, too!'

Yao accepted the boots and parka, a hesitant smile of his lips – although he really had to wonder if joining Ivan on his 'nightly errands' was such a good idea after all.

'This is exciting, _da_?' Ivan hummed eagerly, slinging his heavy bag over the shoulder as Yao slipped on the boots. Yao zipped up the parka and stepped out with Ivan, the cool night air caressing his face. His boots grated roughly against the soles of his feet when he walked, but Yao didn't particularly mind. It was almost pitch black outside, the ground barely illuminated by moonlight. Yao guessed they were far out from the city, only able to make out a dirt path beneath his feet, and a treeline somewhere in the distance. No one could ever hear him scream from here, Yao thought uneasily.

Ivan led him to a black pick-up truck, opening the passenger seat door for Yao. Yao stepped in, the inside of the car surprisingly fresh and clean smelling, and waited for Ivan to get into the driver's seat. He turned to Yao and chuckled, perhaps enthralled with having company this time around. Yao laughed weakly, not sure what to expect from tonight. But whatever it was, at least he wasn't wasting away in that rotten house.

The drive was long, Yao staring into the darkness outside of his window, streetlights eventually beginning to dot the side of the road. The car was silent, only the hum of the engine filling it. Yao did not ask where they were going, or who Ivan was planning to kill today. He feared that by doing so he might stir the beast that lurked behind Ivan's placid expression, and so he stayed quiet.

After what must have been at least an hour's drive, Ivan pulled up the car at a dingy looking motel. Yao gulped, the place looking as if it had come straight out of a horror film. The motel sign flickered on and off, dimly illuminating a pale yellow building, paint peeling off in places. He turned to look at Ivan, who pulled out a small piece of paper to glance at it before promptly putting it away.

Ivan opened the car door and stepped out, making his way to the back to pick up his bag. He approached Yao's side of the car and tapped on his window.

'Come on.' A gentle smile crept onto Ivan's lips.

Yao shook his head. 'I think I'll stay in here.' He had only wanted a change of scenery, some fresh air, not more blood on his hands.

'You said you would help me…' Ivan opened the car door and pouted playfully, although Yao knew jokes were more than just that with Ivan. 'Are you the kind who breaks promises, Yao?'

'N-no. Of course not.'

'Then step out.' Lilac eyes burned into Yao's, and he couldn't help but obey, gripping the ends of his oversized sleeves nervously as he did so.

'Good, _myshka_.' Ivan pat his shoulder, Yao feeling just the slightest bit unnerved that he had taken such a tone with him, but too uncertain, too afraid, to make any comment about it. 'Now we go.' Ivan chirped.

Yao followed him up the stairs of the motel porch, towards a door with the number '4' painted onto it. Ivan stopped in front of it and knelt down, taking a pin out and working it into the lock. After a moment of silence, there was a faint click. Ivan stood up and gently opened the door, Yao hesitantly following him in.

The room inside was dark, the air reeking of cigarette smoke and beer, moonlight streaming in through an open window to outline the silhouette of an armchair. Yao could hear a quiet snoring emanating from it, and held his breath in fear of being heard. A hand locked onto his shoulder, causing Yao to nearly jump in place.

'Listen.' Ivan murmured. Yao stilled. A pitter patter of footsteps approaching them. They turned towards the sound, a small frail child standing in front of them. A young girl of no more than five years old, her skin pale and sallow. Big, round eyes gazed at them apprehensively.

' _Moya solnyshka_ ,' Ivan whispered softly as he approached the girl – who to Yao's surprise, did not flinch or back away. Her wide eyes softened, gazing at Ivan with more fondness than fear. 'Go back to sleep.' Ivan crooned as he guided the girl back into the room she had come from. 'Everything will be different tomorrow morning. But you have to stay in your room. Don't come out until morning, _da_?'

Yao watched silently, mystified by the child's docility around Ivan. As she returned to her room, his eyes caught a shadow of a bruise on the little girl's forearm. More purple blemishes covered her legs, the back of her fragile neck. Ivan closed the bedroom door behind her, glancing at Yao with a tender expression he had not seen in him before.

'Let's get to work, shall we?' Ivan murmured softly, smiling weakly as he led Yao towards the sleeping man in the armchair. Yao felt his pulse quicken, anticipating the sight of blood once again, his breaths starting to become heavier and more labored.

Perhaps having perceived this, Ivan chuckled quietly. 'Relax, _myshka_.' He set his bag down and rummaged through it. 'We don't want to wake him up just yet, _da_?' He pulled out a small cloth and rope. He threw the rope at Yao. 'Tie his arms and legs up. I'll make sure he keeps still.'

Yao caught the rope with clammy hands, shakily wrapping the rope around the man's socked feet first and tying it into a firm knot. The man shifted, slowly rousing from his sleep, but Yao continued. He lifted up the man's hands, tying the rope around them as well. The man's eyes fluttered open, but before he could even comprehend what was happening, Ivan stuffed his mouth with the cloth. The man writhed and struggled in the armchair, his yells nothing more than muffled noises. Ivan lifted the man up from the chair and threw him onto the floor, toppling over a beer bottle off the coffee table as he did so. The bottle shattered, the sound piercing the air.

Ivan shuffled through his bag, taking out a large metal pipe that glinted menacingly in the moonlight. He gestured it towards Yao with a smile. 'I'll let you take care of him today. My gift to you.'

Yao stared at the pipe dumbly, mouth agape. He looked down at the struggling man, his eyes wide with terror, and couldn't help but feel a little sick at the sight. What was he doing here?

_I'm not a murderer._

He looked back to Ivan, his hand offering the pipe so innocently, as if he had given Yao flowers instead. Yao shook his head and swallowed nervously. 'I-I don't think I can. This… This isn't right…'

'Right?' Ivan's pipe-wielding hand fell to his side. He sighed softly and stepped over the man to approach Yao, his pale face almost glowing in the darkness of the room. 'It doesn't have to be right for you to do something…' Ivan stepped behind him, his vodka scented breath on Yao's neck as the gap between Ivan's chest and Yao's back closed in. Yao felt his breath shudder as Ivan encircled him with his arms, pressing the pipe into Yao's trembling hands and guiding them into swinging motions, as if Yao were about to hit a tiny golf ball and not a man's face. 'It only has to feel right.' Their hands swung the pipe in the air together, Ivan pushing it just a little further to bring the end of the pipe gently against the man's sweating face. 'Just imagine how good it would feel to smash this face in, to send it flying into nothingness, _myshka_.' Ivan spoke softly into Yao's ear, sending a shiver down Yao's spine. 'Doesn't that excite you?'

Yao shook his head vigorously, resisting the direction Ivan was pushing his hands in. 'I can't.'

'Oh, but you can.' A deep chuckle reverberated in Ivan's throat. 'I've seen you do it. And so beautifully, as well…' He murmured, the words spoken fondly on his lips. ' _Ochi chernye…_ I want you to show me that sight again.'

The man squirmed and twisted beneath Yao, like a worm trying to escape the grasp of a hawk. Too futile. Too pointless, and yet he gave it every last ounce of his strength. Yao knew there was nothing he could do to stop this man's death tonight. But he certainly wasn't going to stain his own hands with blood once again. His grasp on the pipe loosened. Yao was ready to turn around and tell Ivan 'no', that he wouldn't kill again, until something had caught his eye. The man's hands, shaking uncontrollably. Or more specifically, his knuckles, which were grazed and bloody. Bloody from beating someone.

And then the image of that broken little girl flashed before Yao's eyes, her fragile skin bruised and beaten, and her sunken eyes vacant and dead inside. How many more times would this man's knuckles become bloody again? How many more times would they thrash and abuse that girl's frail little body? The more Yao asked himself this - the more he let those images of marred skin spin around in his head - the less he started to think, and the more he started to act.

_If I don't do something now, who knows what will happen to her tomorrow…_

The blood pulsed in his temples. His heart beat furiously.

_Pigs like him shouldn't exist. They shouldn't live._

His hands tightened around the pipe, Ivan loosening his grasp around Yao as he did so.

_This isn't murder. It's justice._

Then, as if of their own accord, Yao's arms raised the pipe up. Ivan stepped back, silent as he watched. Yao took one last look at the man's face, the ugly face of someone who should have never lived, before swinging the pipe down upon it with a sickening crack. Blood splattered onto Yao's face, the taste and feel of it familiar. Something bitter rose up in his throat, but he pushed it back down as he raised his trembling arms again, wanting more. More of the sound of bone crumbling, of blood seeping into the dark floor beneath, of flesh squelching.

The pipe smacked down onto the man, his howls nothing but muffled wails beneath the bloodied cloth in his mouth. Splinters of bones flew, pieces of what was once a monster's face now meaningless lumps in the air. The screaming now silent, the man's face was no longer a structure, merely a crimson mess on the floor. And even so, the job was never quite finished. Yao's arms ached to hit harder, more destructively, perhaps until this lumpy puddle completely disintegrated away, until there was nothing left, until –

'Yao.' Ivan caught the pipe mid-air as Yao had prepared to swing it down again. 'That's enough.'

Ivan pulled the pipe gently away from Yao, who was dazed and still lost in the red sea that had started to form on the floor beneath him.

'There is much cleaning up to do.' Ivan smiled, his face dusted with specks of blood. Yao looked around himself, finding that ribbons of blood had somehow plastered themselves into the walls, onto the armchair and even onto the ceiling. He looked back to the mess on the floor and felt his knees wobble as realization descended upon him in a slow crawl.

_I'm a murderer. A monster._

Ivan caught Yao by the arms before he could fall into the slippery pool of blood. 'Ah, _ochi chernye… Okh nedarom vy glubiny temnei!'_ He wiped away the splotches of blood from Yao's face, caressing his cheek and continuing to hum in words Yao could not understand. But he knew all too well what it meant, from the affection riddled between Ivan's strange words to the glimmer in his lilac eyes.

He was Ivan's monster now.


	4. Hesitation

'State your name, please?'

'Mathew Williams.'

'Occupation?'

Mathew shifted in his seat. 'I uh… work as a cashier, I guess… But I do other things, t-'

'Could you speak up?' Alfred leaned forward over the table.

Mathew smiled weakly, raising his voice shakily. 'I-I said I work as a cashier. At the charity shop.' He looked to Kiku, perhaps deeming him the more approachable one of the two detectives. 'Can I have some water, please?'

Kiku nodded and left the interrogation room. He had insisted he and Alfred use a friendlier environment to question their first - and perhaps only – witness, but Alfred was rather adamant about 'applying pressure' for information, as if the witness were a ketchup bottle and not a fragile human being. Alfred was, without doubt, too indelicate to be good with witnesses. He was, however, phenomenal at piecing together seemingly unrelated evidence to build a strong case, his enthusiasm unmatched by anyone else in the department. Kiku supposed that was why no one made too much of a big deal when Alfred sent witnesses and suspects into hissy fits or breakdowns.

Reflecting on this, Kiku returned to the room with a glass of water and set it in front of Mathew, who softly thanked him.

'Alright,' Alfred stretched his arms out, cracking his knuckles in such a way that Mathew flinched. 'Shall we begin?'

'Yes,' Kiku took his seat next to Alfred, flicking through the file on the desk. 'Mathew, how about you start with what you saw? On the 7th of July?'

Mathew nodded. 'It was about one in the morning, I think… I was asleep in the storage room when I heard voices through the window -'

'What were you doing at the shop at one in the morning?' Alfred interjected, immediately pouncing on Mathew's statement.

'Ah… I…' Mathew averted his eyes and smiled shyly. 'I got locked in by accident.'

'How did that happen? Don't you have the keys to the shop?'

'N-no. My boss Francis does.' Mathew bit his lip, embarrassment flushing across his face. 'I fell asleep on the job, you see… I guess he must have forgotten I was still in there.' He laughed weakly.

'Could you please continue with your first statement?' Kiku said, trying his best to redirect the questioning before Alfred could find something odd with Mathew's simple explanation. He needed these sessions to go well, for once.

'Ah, yes. Um…I heard these voices outside, and I thought it was really strange so I took a look through the window. There were two men holding this bundle, I don't know what it was but I had a bad feeling about it when they threw it into the river.'

'What did these men look like?' Alfred leaned forward in his seat.

Mathew seemed to reflect on this question for a moment, before replying. 'One of them had this light colored coat. And he was really tall, I remember that. The other man… He had a ponytail. And he was kind of small. He kept dropping his end of the bundle….'

'You didn't see their faces? Hair color? Skin tone?'

Mathew shook his head. 'It was so dark outside, and they were kind of far away from where I was.'

'And what about their voices, what did they sound like? Do you remember what they were saying?' Kiku asked.

'…One of them was definitely foreign, he had a strange accent.' Mathew furrowed his brows as he struggled to recall. 'But I couldn't really hear what they were saying, it was all so muffled and quiet.'

Kiku hummed thoughtfully, looking to Alfred as if to ask if he had any further questions. Alfred shook his head.

'That's all we wanted to ask you today.' Alfred turned to Mathew. 'We'll call you back if we have any more questions.'

'And please don't hesitate to call us if you remember anything else.' Kiku added, getting up from his chair to lead Mathew out. When Kiku had guided Mathew out and returned, he looked to Alfred questioningly.

'So… do you think it's the same killer?'

'It has to be.' Alfred frowned as he perused the file, examining the photos of the mangled torso that they had found floating in the river. Hands, feet, and the body's head had been severed cleanly – making the job of identifying the body a hell of a lot harder. 'Two killings in one night, in the same area? They have to be connected.'

Kiku stood there silently, saying nothing. Alfred looked up to him and smiled reassuringly, although his mind was racing with possibilities. With two killers on his hands, and a new corpse in the morgue, Alfred had much to think about.

* * *

The smell of flesh burning singed the air. Yao resisted the urge to gag as he held the cold, limp arm still as Ivan pressed the chainsaw further into it. Specks of blood dotted his goggles, the sound of meat being torn echoing in the 'workshop' – as Ivan liked to call it. Yao always felt uneasy in this room. It constantly reeked of decomposing flesh, a scent that Yao was slowly starting to get accustomed to – much to his own horror. To make it worse, Yao had spent nearly every morning aiding Ivan with the preparation of the corpses since-

_(I smashed that pig's face in)_

\- he had helped Ivan in the motel. He had refused Ivan's invitation to his 'nightly errands' ever since, but with a most peculiar kind of guilt in his chest, he offered to help cut up the bodies Ivan brought home. It was sick, disgusting, horrifying – all of these thoughts had passed through Yao's mind every morning – but they quickly faded away, leaving behind an apathetic willingness to earn Ivan's hospitality. _This_ was his home now, whether Yao liked it or not.

The sound of the blade grating on the metal surface of the table screeched in Yao's ears, Ivan promptly switching the chainsaw off. Ivan lifted his goggles. 'Is the bath ready?'

Yao nodded, helping Ivan carry each segment of what used to be a man towards a large metal tub in the corner of the room. Carefully, he placed them into the clear liquid, taking caution to not get any of it splashed on to him. That had already happened once before – the first time he assisted Ivan – and had left a swollen patch of skin on his forearm. It stung and burnt like nothing he had ever felt before. Ivan had actually laughed when it happened, chuckling as he rinsed Yao's throbbing arm with water. 'You'll be like me now.' He smiled as he indicated towards a burn on his own arm. 'We'll have matching scars.' Yao wasn't sure if the gesture was comforting or not.

He placed the last of the pieces of the body into the tub, looking to Ivan for confirmation.

'You're getting better, _myshka._ ' Ivan smiled, removing his gloves and throwing them into a bin. Yao did the same, immediately feeling the need for a hot shower as he normally did after such a morning. He was well practiced enough to not get blood on himself by now, but he could still feel phantom splotches of blood on his neck, his face, his chest. It was everywhere, the guilt and repulsion that he just couldn't scrub away. He hoped the hot water would somehow ease the presence of it, but it never did.

He let the scalding hot water burn him in the shower, wanting to make his skin feel raw until he was satisfied that any imaginary bloodstains would have been washed away. He got out before the shower could cool, as it always did after a few minutes. Comfort was a short lived luxury in this house, as Yao had come to learn. He put on fresh clothes and wandered around the house for a while, unsure what to do with himself once again. Between cutting up corpses and dinner, there was little for Yao to do. Ivan was nowhere to be found around this time of day, although Yao was sure he had not left the house. He suspected he locked himself in this room at the far end of the upstairs hallway, a room that Yao had never seen the inside of. He was incredibly curious about it, but never mustered up the courage to ask. Yao's fears of being killed by Ivan were undoubtedly eased ever since he became Ivan's pet project, his apprentice in the art of killing, but it was needless to say that the man still terrified Yao. Who knew when Ivan's gentle smile would falter? What did it take to make him snap? Yao did not want to be the one to find out.

When dinner time finally arrived, Yao seated himself at the table. Ivan set down a plate in front of him - a bowl of soup today. _At least it's not pork again,_ Yao thought glumly.

Yao started eating without hesitation, fully aware of the lilac gaze that watched him. He was used to it by now, having learnt to not make any comment about it, fearing Ivan would make an unsettling statement in response as he normally did when prompted.

Today, however, a prompt was not needed. 'Are you coming with me today, _myshka?_ ' Ivan asked sweetly as he poured himself a glass of vodka. Yao set his spoon back into the bowl. He was starting to lose count of how many times Ivan had asked him to kill again.

'I told you, I don't want to.' Yao replied, his pulse quickening in anticipation of Ivan's reaction. To his surprise, Ivan said nothing and smiled weakly instead. He gulped down the shot of vodka, pouring more into his glass shortly after. The silence had suddenly become uncomfortable for Yao, his stomach churning and making him unable to eat any more of the soup. And yet, Ivan still watched - he could feel his gaze even though Yao had his eyes cast down. It was starting to unnerve him.

Feeling the need to break the silence, Yao's eyes traveled up to meet Ivan's, a question forming on his lips. One he realized he had been wondering about since the first day he had been here, but was too afraid to have it answered.

'…What was your first kill like?' Yao asked, the question hanging in the air uneasily as he waited for a response.

'My first kill?' Ivan's eyes fluttered in slight surprise, setting his small glass of vodka down. 'That was long ago… My memory from that time is hazy.'

Yao stared back incredulously as he realized that for the first time, Ivan was lying to him. His lilac eyes didn't quite lock onto Yao's as they normally did, and his hand was fidgeting. For a serial killer, Ivan was a terrible liar, and Yao couldn't help but feel just the slightest bit amused at this. Feeling more courageous than usual, he pressed on.

'You don't remember?'

Ivan chuckled. 'It's not something to discuss at the dinner table.'

Yao scoffed, perhaps too abruptly. Ivan's smile wavered. Yao was playing a dangerous game here, he knew that, but he was intoxicated by his sudden feeling of empowerment. For once, he wasn't the one being cornered. 'You can tell me. What do you have to hide from me anyway?'

'Yao…' Ivan's mask of feigned amusement was starting to slip, his eyes darkening slightly. 'There are things no one wants to hear.'

'But I want to hear it.'

'You don't _._ ' Ivan growled, his expression telling Yao to drop the subject immediately. Yao's mouth was starting to go dry, perhaps realizing that he had taken it far enough. He broke away his gaze from Ivan.

'S-Sorry. I didn't realize it was…' Yao's voice trailed off.

'It's fine.' Ivan replied, his voice sweet and child-like once again, though Yao could hear the irritation interlaced between his words. 'You should finish your soup before it goes cold, _myshka._ '

* * *

That night Yao woke up to the sound of Ivan's murmuring voice, his weight pressing next to Yao's legs on the mattress. Yao stayed still, facing the cracked wall in the pitch black darkness. He could hear his own heart beat louder and desperately hoped Ivan wouldn't hear it.

 _'_ _Ochi chernye…_ ' Ivan's voice slurred in the dark. The sharp scent of vodka poisoned the air around Yao as he tensed and waited for Ivan to leave. Only he didn't. Yao lay there for what felt like an eternity, listening to Ivan's barely coherent mumblings as he clutched to his pillow nervously. Perhaps Yao had gone too far with his question today, perhaps he ruined his only chance of survival in this house. Perhaps Ivan had grown tired of him already, and this was Yao's last night on earth. He swallowed nervously.

Yao nearly flinched when Ivan lay down on the bed, his back pressed against Yao's. Ivan murmured, sighing deeply. There was silence, Yao's breaths feigning deep sleep although his heart was racing. Nothing was happening. At least, not yet. That only furthered his uneasiness.

 _He's toying with me…_ Yao thought with dread.

Suddenly, Yao felt the mattress shake as a deep chuckle echoed in the darkness. 'You too… _myshka_?' Ivan mumbled. 'I did not think you would be awake at this time…'

Yao felt his heart leap into his throat. 'Don't you have people to kill?' He managed to choke out, despite the panic rising in his chest.

'Mm, _da…_ '

'And?' Yao continued sharply. 'Shouldn't you be out by now?' He didn't mean to come across as too rude, but Ivan's presence here really wasn't helping the condition of his heart – which was surely going to burst from fear at any moment.

'What did it feel like to kill for the first time, _myshka?_ ' Yao felt Ivan's weight shift as he turned towards Yao.

The question almost made Yao flinch - he had not expected it. He hesitated for a moment. 'It was… overwhelming. Sickening. Horrible.'

'That was after you killed him. What about when you stabbed him, when you first saw his blood spill?' Ivan's voice was cold, distant. It was strange to hear him so emotionless, the lack of playfulness in his voice making Yao shiver despite the sweltering July heat.

'I… I don't know- why are you asking me this?' Yao turned around in the dark, the invisible snakes around his chest loosening up slightly as he realized that Ivan wasn't here to finally kill him.

'I was curious…' Ivan hummed. 'You want to know what I felt when I first killed?' Yao said nothing. Ivan took his silence as a 'yes' and continued on. 'I felt like I was in control, for once. I could decide…' Ivan's voice faltered, no longer sounding like the intimidating man he was. For the first time, Ivan sounded vulnerable. Scared, even. But of what?

'Who was it?' Yao asked softly. He heard Ivan exhale lightly. Yao could picture the tender smile he was likely to be wearing right now. Yao couldn't help but feel a little guilty, perhaps having drudged up unwanted and painful memories for Ivan.

'I'm tired, _myshka._ ' Ivan crooned. 'Maybe tomorrow…'

Yao stayed quiet, knowing that Ivan would not answer his questions any time soon. He wanted to ask him to leave, Ivan's heavy vodka scented breath making Yao incredibly uncomfortable, but was too afraid to ask. He lay there and waited for sleep to take him away, the minutes passing by painfully slowly as Yao listened to the quietness of the night. Yao could even hear his own heart thumping in his chest. Perhaps if he listened closely enough, he would hear Ivan's too – that is, if there was one.

It was then, in that moment of nearly absolute silence, that a little thought emerged. As if it were carried by a breeze, the thought floated around in Yao's head, quiet and lingering.

_He's lying there…asleep. Unaware. How easy it would be…_

The thought tugged at him, teased him.

_If I had the strength… If my hands could wrap around his throat and squeeze until his breath stops…_

Wouldn't everything be so much easier then? Yao would no longer have to fear a death by that man's ice cold hands. His last breath wouldn't be drawn whilst gazing at those cruel eyes.

_I can end it now. I can put a stop to it. I only need to reach over…_

Yao propped himself up on his elbows, ever so slowly and carefully. No, he wasn't mad. He wasn't crazy. If anything, Yao's mind had never been clearer, or more reasonable. Yao knew he could no longer return to the life he once had. He was a killer, a murderer. He had no place in the world now. But living down his guilt with Ivan by his side - that was unbearable. Impossible. The man would always push him to do more. To kill again. Yao was the monster, Ivan holding the leash in his hands. It was a bond Yao refused to accept, and there was only one way out of it.

Yao's hands fumbled in the darkness, reaching forward to touch Ivan's sleeve. He froze, waited to see if Ivan was still awake. Nothing. Ivan's breaths continued to whisper softly in the air. He cautiously got up on his knees, his other hand following behind the other as they sought Ivan's throat.

_Just reach a little further…_

Yao's hand traveled up, gently smoothing over where Ivan's chest rose and fell. He moved so painstakingly slowly, Yao's shoulders were starting to ache, but he had to do this right. One misstep and it was over. His hand moved up higher, until a gentle thud pulsated beneath it.

 _His heart…_ Yao thought glumly. _I guess he does have one after all._

Yao continued on, his hand touching the scarf that Ivan wore even in his sleep, curiously enough. But something had changed. Suddenly he wasn't sure what he was doing, or what had him so convinced before. His hand trembled uneasily as it hovered over Ivan's throat.

_It's right there. Your chance. Your escape from Ivan. Take it. Take his life._

The voice beckoned incessantly in Yao's mind. It urged him with such desperation, Yao was almost ready to act upon it and tighten his grip on Ivan's throat. To squeeze and squeeze until he heard the monster's final cry. To hear his windpipe crush beneath Yao's hands. How beautiful that sound would be…

_And yet-_

Why couldn't he do it?

Yao slumped back into the bed, his hands falling limply to his sides. He didn't understand why. How could Yao so easily beat a man's face to a pulp – a man as horrible and unworthy of life as Ivan – and yet couldn't even muster up the strength to suffocate the pale faced monster sleeping beside him?

And then Yao remembered the image of Ivan's tender expression when that broken little girl had appeared, the softness of his voice. There was a part of Ivan that Yao had a glimpse of that night, a part that surely couldn't inhabit the same body as the cold blooded killer who sliced up corpses every morning. If Yao killed Ivan, he would be killing that child inside of him, too. The child that was so innocently thrilled with having company for once, for having another person to cook for, for having _someone_.

Yao closed his eyes and let himself drift away, this time finding a strange comfort in Ivan's breaths beside him. Yao hadn't killed the monster, but he hadn't killed the child either. For now, it was something Yao would have to live with.


	5. A Faltering Mask

_This is dangerous…_

Yao's clammy hand gripped the door handle. It was ice cold.

_I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be doing this._

And yet, Yao's hand moved of its own accord and pressed the handle down. The door clicked open. It was unlocked, but this only furthered the feeling of dread in Yao's chest. If it had been locked, Yao would have no choice but to walk away, there would have been nothing he could do. But it was open. There was nothing stopping his morbid curiosity, the burning need to find out what this room hid – the room that Ivan often locked himself in during the afternoons. If Ivan saw what Yao was doing now, he would-

_But he won't. He's not here._

It was a dangerous assumption to make, Yao knew that all too well. It was an unusually quiet morning today, Ivan nowhere to be seen or heard. The humming sound of the chainsaw rumbling that Yao had become so accustomed to was absent, and the house was devoid of any echoing footsteps aside from Yao's own. Surely Ivan had left to catch up on the 'work' he had neglected last night? Yao felt it was a reasonable explanation –albeit one Yao's very life depended on.

 _I'll only be a moment, just a look is all I need._ For all Yao knew, the room was nothing but an innocent little library, a resting place for Ivan. But whatever it was, he couldn't help but feel that it would bring him closer to the answer Ivan wouldn't give. Yao needed to know, to understand, the child that was trapped in that monster's body.

Taking a deep breath, Yao gently pushed the door open. He switched on the light, which flickered on uneasily until the whole room was illuminated with its dim light. Yao nearly stopped breathing at the sight.

The walls were covered, from floor to ceiling, in photos. Photos of men and women, young and old, were plastered side by side. Many of them had been crossed out with a black marker, and Yao knew only too well what this signified. He looked for the man whose face he beat to a pulp - he was sure he would find his picture crossed out as well. His eyes finally resting on a familiar face, a large black 'X' across it, Yao's suspicion was confirmed. This room was Ivan's hit list. But why was there a sinking feeling of disappointment in his chest? Shouldn't he be relieved that this was all it was? Yao may well have uncovered something worse, something vile and horrifying. He could have stumbled upon a dead corpse, preserved like a stuffed animal. He might have found the severed heads of Ivan's victims, souvenirs from all of his kills. But he didn't, and yet somehow Yao wanted there to be more.

Sighing, Yao took a seat in an armchair that had been placed in the center of the room - perhaps from where Ivan selected his next target. He let his eyes wander around the room, eventually settling on a large chest in the corner of the room… How had he missed that?

Kneeling in front of the chest, Yao opened it carefully. Inside were papers, newspaper clippings, more photos. He picked up a yellowed and crumbled newspaper clipping - _'GLEN HILLS ASYLUM SHUT DOWN'_. The small print beneath it was smudged and faded. Yao struggled to make out the words.

_'…_ _horrified to find patients malnourished and violently abused. Many patients were forcibly restrained to their beds for days on end, some dying from starvation… records falsified to maintain funding… children as young as four years of age falsely declared mentally ill and admitted into the Glen Hills Children's Ward for purposes of being used as test subjects… One of the 'patients', aged ten years old when he was admitted, was repeatedly abused and raped by nurses–'_

Yao put the newspaper down, finding himself unable to read any further. He picked up another – more accounts regarding the asylum – and Yao felt sick to the stomach before he could even reach the end of the article. He looked to the date of the newspaper. This was nine years ago, though why Ivan was fixated on this particular asylum he did not know. Yao could guess why, but it was a possibility he didn't like to think about. Setting the papers back in the exact way he had found them, a small photo caught the corner of his eye. He picked it up.

It was a photo of several young children, scrawny and miserable looking. They were outside in the snow, standing in a line with their hands buried in their worn out coat pockets. Yao studied their faces, as if he could somehow glean their life story simply by looking at their dull and vacant eyes. They were so small, so tiny amidst the bleak scenery they had found themselves in. A crumbling brick building stood ominously behind them, its windows cracked and broken. On the far left of the photo was a thin little boy, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. His eyes looked scared and weary, but nevertheless held that gentleness that Yao had become so familiar with in recent days.

_Ivan…?_

Yao leaned closer into the photo. It was definitely him, and yet how could it be? How could such a frail little child grow to be the monster Yao knew? What had happened to him? Yao's heart went out to the boy in the photo, wishing someone had been there for him, been there when god knows what happened. Perhaps then –

A hand abruptly grabbed the back of Yao's collar, causing Yao to yelp in shock as he was roughly dragged out of the room, not even given the time to stand up. He was yanked against the wall in the hallway, his breath knocked out of him forcefully. He looked up fiercely, only for his anger to dissipate swiftly at the sight of Ivan's towering frame hanging over him.

'Yao.' Ivan growled, his eyes hardened and completely lacking in the usual gentleness they contained. 'What were you doing in there?' The question seethed through his teeth in a way that made Yao's stomach twist painfully.

'I…' Yao started in an attempt to explain himself, only to find a different set of words spilling out of him instead. 'What happened at Glen Hills?' He shot back accusingly, although he immediately felt foolish for doing so.

Ivan reached down and picked Yao up by his collar, the coldness in his eyes sending a shiver down Yao's spine. He pulled him up to his feet, and then just a little further so that Yao's toes barely touched the floor beneath him. 'Don't ever mention that place. And don't _ever_ go into that room again.' Ivan's voice was low, quiet, and yet it rang painfully loudly in Yao's ears. 'Understand?'

Yao felt the urge to nod, to say whatever Ivan wanted to hear for the sake of his own life, but something stronger was starting to build up in his chest. A defiance that had been growing since his first day here. A spark that demanded to be recognized. Yao was _not_ the timid little mouse Ivan thought he was. He wasn't his toy – he wasn't' his wind up doll that he could put away when it wasn't needed. Yao wouldn't have any more of Ivan's sick game.

'No, I don't understand.' Yao hissed back, his hands gripping Ivan's in an attempt to pry them off. 'You can't keep me in the dark. I'm not your pet or your prisoner - because I didn't just kill that man, Ivan. I murdered him. And then I helped you slice him up, I held him still while you tore him into tiny little pieces – and you can't tell me why? You can't tell me the reason for all this?!' Yao's voice trembled as it raised, his face growing hot as he felt more and more aware of how deeply Ivan was staring at him, unblinking and cold. 'I-I think I've earned an answer.' Yao forced himself to look Ivan in the eyes, to not look away as he often did, even though every fiber of his being urged him to run far, far away from Ivan. He could hear his own pulse throb in his ears as he waited for Ivan to response, for his expression to change, for _something_ to happen. But instead, Ivan kept his grip on Yao, not saying anything. Just staring at him.

A chuckle broke through the silence, Ivan's eyes softening. Yao released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 'You're right, _myshka._ ' Ivan loosened his grip on Yao's shirt, setting him down gently. Yao's legs felt unsteady and weak as he sank down to the floor unashamedly, wishing his burst of strength had lasted a bit longer.

Ivan kneeled down to face Yao at eye level. 'We're in this together, _da?_ ' Ivan smiled, any trace of the monster that had bared its fangs at Yao long gone. 'Which is why I'll make you a deal.'

'A deal?' Yao echoed back, suddenly feeling self-conscious of the sound of his own ragged breathing.

'I'll answer any of your questions, but only if you help me.'

'Help?' Yao repeated weakly. 'You want me to kill again?'

'Mm.' Ivan nodded, his smile widening. 'One kill, one question answered.'

'I… I have to…' Yao stared back with widened eyes. This man was trading lives for answers, and yet his voice was so light and carefree. How could Ivan smile like that? How could he smile as if he had never seen the sight of a man's face distorted in pure agony, as if he himself had never felt it? If Ivan really was that frail little boy in the photo, then why wasn't his gaze tainted with suffering?

 _What happened to you?_ The question swam in Yao's head frantically, desperately asking to be answered. Yao had to know.

'So what do you say, _myshka?_ '

Yao nodded faintly. 'It's a deal.' The words were spoken softly and somewhat reluctantly. _It's people Ivan would have killed anyway –_ Yao tried to reason with himself, justify it somehow. But the truth was painfully obvious to him, guilt festering in him feverishly as Yao realized that he was perhaps not just doing it for the sake of his burning curiosity, but for something darker instead. A deeply submerged need that was buried beneath all of Yao's false and comforting words that he spoke only to himself.

* * *

Alfred slapped a photo on the desk with such force that Kiku jumped up in his seat. Taking a moment to recover, Kiku turned away from the computer screen to look up at his partner, and then at the photo beneath Alfred's hand.

'New lead?' Kiku asked.

'You bet your ass it's a new lead!' Alfred tapped the photo with vigorous excitement, Kiku flinching at just how loud the office suddenly was because of him. Co-workers glanced their way with interest, some with irritation, and Kiku fought the urge to apologize on Alfred's behalf. This seemed to be, after all, something incredibly important.

'What is it?' Kiku picked up the photo from beneath Alfred's hand and looked at it.

'You're not gonna believe this, man. This guy – he went missing the same night our guy was stabbed.'

Kiku looked up at Alfred questioningly, opening his mouth to make a comment until Alfred continued on brusquely.

'I know what you're thinking. Coincidence, right? Except this guy was last seen at the 'Poisoned Apple' - don't even get me started on that place - before he disappeared. That was at approximately 11 p.m. – around the same time our victim was stabbed. Now get this -' Alfred set a map down on the desk and pinpointed to a spot marked with an 'X'. 'So this is where he left, and this…' Alfred slid his index finger down the map. '…is where the guy lives. Notice anything?'

'He passed by the crime scene.' Kiku leaned forward, eyes now drawn to the map as he mulled on the possibility. 'But… the victim's time of death is just an approximation – we could be wrong by an hour, two hours. How do we know they even met?'

'And the photo – look at the photo, Kiku!' Alfred said, ignoring Kiku's quiet criticisms. Despite not wanting to, Kiku looked back at the photo with a small sigh. He could understand why Alfred was so excited, the man had long hair and looked to be of a small stature – a match with their witnesses' statement. But that was hardly anything to go on as far as leads go. Not to mention…

Kiku sighed again and set the photo back onto the desk.

'Please forgive me for saying this, but this isn't really a lead.' Kiku looked at Alfred, whose shoulders sank slightly. Kiku hated to be the one shooting down his ideas - but someone had to do it.

'But it's something, isn't it?' Alfred sighed, leaning onto the desk. 'I don't know… I guess I am clutching at straws here.' He picked the photo up from the desk, looking at it with his brows furrowed for a moment of silence. 'He just might be our guy, you know. He has that look in his eyes. Like pitch black stones staring right through you…'

Kiku wanted to say that perhaps Alfred was just seeing what he wanted to see, but instead made no comment. He turned back to his computer, Alfred still lingering as the phone rang.

'Detective Honda speaking.' Kiku pressed the phone to his ear, Alfred lifting his face to watch in interest. 'Yes…We'll be there right away. Thank you.' Kiku closed the phone, only to be immediately barraged by Alfred's voice.

'Who was it? Another witness?' Alfred asked as he straightened up, eyes brightened with curiosity.

'No.' Kiku tidied up his files into his desk drawer. 'It's another crime scene. No body, but there's traces of blood and a man who's been missing for four days now. Left a child behind, too.'

'Ah. Heading over now?'

Kiku nodded, getting up and putting on his jacket. 'Who knows? This might be your next lead.' He said with the intention of it coming across as slight banter, only to find that the two of them had taken it seriously, their expressions grave. They both knew, or at least had a gut feeling, that the blood thirst of the beast they were hunting wasn't quenched just yet.

* * *

Despite the darkness in the room, Yao could see the man's face contort in terror, in dread of what might come next. Yao could smell the acidic scent of fear in the air, sweat breaking out on the man's forehead as he writhed on the floor beneath Yao. All was exactly as it had been a few days ago, a fresh victim lying in wait, his hands and feet tied down so he couldn't run away.

'Please- Whatever you want, just take it! Please… don't…' The man whimpered, almost squealing like a pig in anticipation of being butchered. Ivan stuffed a cloth into the man's mouth, the room suddenly quiet as the man's cries became muffled.

'Who is he?' Yao asked, his hands clenching and unclenching as nervousness started to overtake him.

'Is that your question for tonight?' Ivan reached over for his bag and rummaged through it.

'N-No.' Yao bit his lip. He had to choose his questions carefully. Each one did cost a life, after all. He studied the man's face, worn and rough looking. He was old, perhaps around fifty years of age. He was a scrawny man, the contours of his face jagged and sharp. He looked like a cruel man. Yao wondered how many bloodied faces his eyes had seen. How many children's cries he had heard with his ears. For Ivan to have selected him, to have his face plastered on a wall, surely he must have done something. Yao clung on to this thought desperately, a thread that kept him from being completely immersed in guilt. If the man was a monster, then Yao would merely be slaying him, erasing his pitiful existence. This, perhaps Yao could live with.

' _Myshka_?' Ivan's voice lilted sweetly in the room, his hand offering Yao a metal pipe. It was clean, almost glimmering in the ribbons of moonlight that escaped the apartment window. Yao felt his breath deepen as his hand reached for it, to feel it in his grip once again, only to stop midway.

'Something wrong?' Ivan asked.

'…Yeah.' Yao glanced at the large black bag on the floor, the one that Ivan brought with him everywhere. He swallowed nervously, wanting to say the words that were starting to form on his lips, but feeling hesitant to do so. It was an odd thought, one that had taken Yao by surprise, but nevertheless it was there. 'Do you…' Yao started, not quite understanding himself fully when he asks this. 'Do you have something else to use? Something other than a pipe?'

For a fleeting moment Ivan's eyes lit up, perhaps finding this question to be unexpected, only for his gaze to immediately soften. 'Of course, _myshka._ I have so many other things you could use…' He smiled as he knelt down to open up the bag. He pulled out a knife. It was small, and it painfully reminded Yao of the one he had used to kill the scar faced man. He wondered if Ivan had actually kept the knife from that night, as some kind of sick souvenir.

'Will this do?' Ivan handed the knife over.

Yao nodded, taking the knife with trembling hands. God, he was shaking so much.

Suddenly the knife was starting to feel very hot, burning into his grasp. Ignoring this, Yao turned to the man on the floor, considering the shape of his face and throat. How would Yao kill today? Quickly and mercifully? A slice across the throat and the man wouldn't even have the time to scream. But Yao knew Ivan wouldn't like it. He glanced up to find Ivan watching him in the same way he watched Yao eat his food, with fascination and child-like glee. Ivan was expecting so much more than a mercy killing. No, Ivan wanted something spectacular, something magnificent and beautiful in a way that only Ivan could appreciate.

Yao knelt down to the man, lingering the knife around him teasingly as the thought toyed with Yao. Should he? Shouldn't he? His whole body shook and trembled, his throat closing up in a feverish panic. And yet, there was a voice, a calm and tranquil voice – perhaps it was Ivan's – that whispered to him.

_Draw a line and watch him scream… Don't be afraid… Draw it…_

Yao felt Ivan's gaze upon him, it was scorching him, making himself feel as if he was lit on fire. It was the kind of attention that Yao had never felt before, and there was the urge to earn it. To make himself a sight worth watching.

_Draw it… Draw it in red._

Yao brought the knife up to the man's face, his eyes wide and terrified as the pointed edge pressed gently into his temple. Slowly, carefully, Yao brought it down the side of his face, a deep crimson red forming a trail. He heard the man shriek behind the cloth, but it was buried and far away. Yao brought the knife back up again, seeking to feel it again – delicate skin breaking and tearing beneath the knife.

He stood back, realizing that his hand no longer trembling. He wasn't panicked anymore. No, everything was calm, a kind of apathetic clarity guiding Yao's hand as he bent back down to dig the knife in again. He drew it this way and that, sometimes pressing in a little harder to draw more of the red fluid he was hypnotized by. When Yao had run out of blank canvas, he made more of it. He tore open the man's chest, muffled cries quickly ceasing as Yao twisted the knife into him.

_So much red… So much of it…_

Yao choked on the air, the stifling odor of flesh and innards coating it thickly, but he continued on. He sliced whatever he could find, no longer caring about keeping his hands clean. Yao was already tainted. A little blood wouldn't make much difference anymore. Furiously he drove the knife around, breaking and ripping up everything until it was a sticky puddle of useless flesh. Organs no longer in their rightful places. Veins no longer pumping blood. A man's chest no longer rising and falling.

A sharp breath left Yao's lips as he fell back, his vision darkening and flickering like a dying flame. This was it. The man was gone and Yao's work was done. He dropped the knife with a clang as it hit the wooden floor beneath him, looking up to Ivan's surprised expression.

'Well?' Yao panted, his head lolling slightly to the side as he struggled to find the strength to keep his eyes open. He was so very tired, all of his energy expended and gone. 'Don't you like it?'

Ivan smiled gently. 'Very much, _myshka._ ' He knelt down so that he was at eye level with Yao, straightening the collar of Yao's bloodied parka and wiping away flecks of blood from his face. 'Maybe next time I can show you how to do it without them passing out so early on, _da?_ ' Ivan chuckled, getting up and offering Yao a red stained hand. Yao took hold of it and pulled himself up, choosing his words carefully before asking.

'That photo of you…' Yao started, still trying to catch his breath. 'In the snow with the other children. Where was this?'

Ivan stayed quiet for a moment – perhaps caught off guard by the question. His eyes flickering to and from Yao uneasily. 'That… that was a long time ago.' He turned to open his bag, busying himself with it whilst he spoke quietly, his words almost a whisper in the dark apartment. 'The photo was taken when I was still in the orphanage in Bragin. I must have been… eight, I think. No, wait. The photo was…. before….' His voice trailed off, his words becoming intermingled with Russian and no longer coherent to Yao. Carefully stepping over the pools of blood on the floor, Yao approached Ivan.

'What happened there?' Yao asked gently, fearing that he had perhaps opened a floodgate of unwanted memories for Ivan, but curious enough to press on. He watched the back of Ivan's head, wondering what expression he was wearing. Pain? Anger? Nostalgia? He took a step closer, wanting to see Ivan's face.

'Ah, _myshka_. You forget… _'_ Ivan turned to face Yao, a body bag in his hands – although Yao did not know how they were getting that crimson mess neatly into it. Ivan's expression carried no trace of sadness, his eyes clear and gentle as they always were. 'I can only answer one question per body.'

'…R-Right.' Yao had nearly forgotten that every drop of blood spilled meant he was one step closer to finding out. But words weren't always needed. The more Yao gazed at Ivan's soft and peaceful expression, the more it began to resemble a mask. A mask to coat and hide all of the ugly and painful memories etched onto Ivan's skin. And with every question asked, even without Ivan's answer, Yao could see his mask falter and waver. Glimpses of the hurt child hidden away made themselves visible to Yao. He only had to wonder how long – how many torn bodies – until Ivan's mask completely fell away.


	6. Your Bloody Hand in Mine

Alfred knelt down in front of the young girl, who was perched on the landing of the motel porch steps with a blanket wrapped around her frail shoulders. Inside the room Kiku was wrapping up the investigation, gathering whatever little evidence was left behind. Alfred was surprised that Kiku had left the statement gathering to him – despite the opinion of many, Alfred was well aware of his 'harsh' questioning and lack of consideration for witnesses. So Alfred couldn't help but feel just a bit nervous when he found out that the witness was no older than five, trembling and wide eyed as if she had never seen the world beyond that motel door.

'Um… hey.' He smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring. 'What's your name?'

The girl looked up at him, sunken brown eyes gazing at him wearily. She seemed to consider him for a moment before replying. '…Emily.' Her voice was tiny, as if she was afraid of its own volume.

'Emily, my name's Alfred. Now, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to answer them as best as you can, okay?' Alfred looked for some sort of acknowledgement in the girl's eyes, but only found them staring back vacantly. He cleared his throat nervously and continued. 'Okay, so… How long have you been alone in that room?'

'I don't know…' The girl spoke quietly. 'A long time.'

'And before you were alone, it was just you and your father?'

Emily nodded, her grasp on the blanket tightening as she averted her eyes. Alfred noticed the bruises on her pale legs and bit back a muttered curse. He pushed himself to continue.

'Do you remember anyone else entering the house at any point? Other than your father?'

Emily nodded again, her voice slowly losing its shaky quality and becoming more confident. 'Before daddy was gone…'

'Did you see who it was?'

She looked back up at Alfred with the oddest expression on her face. He had expected to see fear in her eyes, but instead only saw a strange kind of glee in them. For the first time her brown eyes glimmered. 'Angels.' She murmured softly, as if no one but Alfred should hear.

'Angels?' Alfred frowned. 'How many?'

'Two of them. They came and took daddy away.' Emily smiled as she kicked the dirt playfully with her bare feet. Her entire demeanor had transformed in this short moment, no longer a traumatized child, but instead one who was merely playing a game. 'I don't know when they'll bring him back though…'

Alfred wasn't sure how to respond – what to make of the angels nor of the girl's logic that her father would come back. He was tempted to reassure her that her father would never come back, but thought better of it and asked another question instead. Even abused children love their parents, Alfred thought glumly, and so he could not say for certain what Emily really wanted to hear.

'What did the angels look like?' He asked gently.

Emily smiled. 'One of them was really big and had whitish hair. He told me to stay in my room until morning.'

'Why is that?'

The girl shrugged. 'He said everything was going to be different after.'

'And what about the other… angel? What did they look like?'

'The other one was a lady, she had a long ponytail… but she looked kind of scared.'

'Scared?'

'Yeah…' The girl trailed off with a faraway look in her eyes, perhaps reliving that night.

'Excuse me, officer.' A taut voice spoke behind Alfred. He turned around to find a sharply dressed ash blonde woman staring at him like he had cut in line or thrown a cigarette butt onto the floor.

'It's Detective, actually.' He got up. 'Detective Jones.' He offered his hand. She didn't take it.

'Social Services. Linda Sterling.' She spoke dryly, her blue eyes staring into Alfred icily. There was an odd kind of ring to her voice, a hidden accent that Alfred couldn't quite put his finger on as she spoke. 'I'm here to ensure this child is taken in by her next of kin.'

'Ah, right.' Alfred smiled politely. 'I was just about done asking her my questions anyway-'

'May I remind you that this is just a child were talking about?' The woman took on a dangerous sounding tone that Alfred really wished he hadn't provoked. 'Barraging her with questions just after spending days alone, with no care and barely enough food, is unacceptable. Now, if you don't mind,' The woman walked past Alfred to reach Emily. 'I need to get this child checked at a hospital immediately.'

'Of course… Linda.' Alfred struggled to keep his expression somewhat pleasant. He watched the blonde woman take Emily by the hand, and hoped that wherever she was going would be a better home than the one Emily's father had failed to provide. He knew, however, that scars like that don't fade. It was with this sinking feeling that Alfred questioned himself as to whether her father's untimely death was such a bad thing after all.

* * *

Yao watched the limp hand fizzle in the clear liquid, bubbles rising up to the surface as it bobbed up and down in the bath. Entranced by it, he stood there motionless. A bloodstained hand clamped down onto his shoulder.

'It'll take a while, you know.' Ivan chuckled.

'I know.' Yao said, his eyes still glued to the bath as Ivan added the rest of the man's limbs and pieces – parts so mangled and shred apart that Yao couldn't even begin to identify them. This ritual that he and Ivan performed nearly every morning – cutting up last night's victim and dissolving them in acid – had suddenly become very personal for Yao. He was watching his own handiwork melt away, whatever was left of this man's existence dissipating into nothingness. He was relieved that there was nothing left as evidence of his cruelty – the monster he had become that night. And yet, at the same time, Yao watched the floating pieces of meat with an odd sense of grief. Not for the man's life, but for the man's death, the spectacular way in which he had been broken. Surely cutting him up in such a way had gone to waste, now that it was no more than a soup of meaningless lumps. Yao wanted to find a way to tell Ivan this, find solace in the fact that he wasn't alone in thinking this. Surely Ivan felt the same…?

He turned to look at Ivan, hoping to see him staring into the bath the same way Yao was, only to find him staring right back at Yao. Startled, he looked away. Something about Ivan's gaze was all too intimate now, as if he knew things about Yao that he did not know himself. Perhaps there was something Yao did not know about himself – something that could only be seen when that bloody knife is in his hands, when his eyes could only see red.

The sound of someone knocking on the door made Yao jolt out of his thoughts. He looked to Ivan in question. Who would be visiting an old, crumbling place like this in the middle of nowhere?

'One moment, _myshka._ ' Ivan smiled, removing his goggles and bloodied gloves before leaving to answer the door. Yao frantically followed behind, only to remember that he still had his goggles and bloodied gloves on. He quickly removed them and threw them onto the empty table, listening to the sound of Ivan unlatching and opening the door.

'Ah, Katyusha! _Zdravstvije!_ ' Ivan spoke, a flow of rapidly spoken Russian echoing in the hallway. Yao waited in the workshop, listening closely for the voice of their visitor. His curiosity peaked, he took a glimpse out into the hallway, but could not see past Ivan's towering frame.

'Yao,' Ivan turned around, his expression bright. 'Come and meet my sister, Katyusha!'

'Hello!' A voluptuous, blonde woman leaned to the side to smile at Yao. 'How are you?' Her smile was as light and radiant as Ivan's, complemented by her soft blue eyes. She seemed sweet, Yao thought.

'Uh…I'm…fine.' Yao smiled weakly, conscious of the blood stain on his shoulder and trying to conceal it behind the door frame. 'How are you?' He asked back somewhat lamely, unsure and out of practice with regards to what used to be normal conversation.

'I'm good, thank you!' Katyusha stepped into the house and dropped a heavy bag onto the floor. She turned to Ivan. 'The rest is in the car. I also brought more of that… uh… hydro-'

'That's fine, I'll get it.' Ivan smiled. 'Why don't you sit in the kitchen with Yao? I'm sure the two of you will get along nicely!' He chuckled, although Yao couldn't help but feel it was more of an intimidating kind of pressure than polite reassurance.

Katyusha nodded and walked down the hallway, approaching the work room. Panicked, Yao jumped out the room and shut the door behind him – forgetting his own blood stained shirt. He inwardly cursed himself as he whipped around and headed for the kitchen, hoping she had not seen it. She would eventually, though, and he wasn't sure what the point of hiding it was anymore.

The two sat at the kitchen table, Katyusha's expression pleasant and calm, her eyes not even second guessing the state of Yao's clothes. Yao found it difficult to settle his gaze anywhere, awkwardly sitting in the silence that had settled in the kitchen.

'You know,' Katyusha started, her words softly spoken and gentle. 'I'm really glad Ivan's found a friend. He's been living on his own for so long… I was getting worried.' A sheepish smile spread across her lips. Yao could only nod in acknowledgement, finding himself oddly uncomfortable. She had such a kind and comforting presence, and yet Yao couldn't help but feel as if his newly found home had been invaded. It was strange that he felt like this, as if this place had suddenly become his little sanctuary when it had once been his prison.

Feeling the need to fill the silence, Yao looked up at Katyusha with a question in his mind. 'Ivan said you're his sister? As in…'

'Not biological, if that's what you're asking.' Katyusha chuckled softly, as if having plucked the thoughts from Yao's mind. 'We were at the same orphanage together, in Bragin.'

'Ah…' Yao mulled on his memory of the photo, trying to recall if he had seen a young girl by Ivan's side, but all he could remember were Ivan's weary eyes. Sensing an opportunity to get more questions answered, he continued. 'What happened there? At the orphanage?' The question spilled out of him, only for Yao to regret not wording it more tactfully.

'What happened…?' Katyusha echoed back, her bright smile faltering. Then, a nervous laughter broke out into the momentary silence. 'Not much. We played and laughed in the snow – our boots were always falling apart and our feet ached from the cold, but we still enjoyed ourselves when we could.' Her eyes fell to the table. 'We weren't always laughing, though. There was plenty of crying, too. And hurt. But that's part of childhood, isn't it?' She looked up with sadness glazed in her eyes. 'We make do with what we've got.' A weak smile etched across her lips.

Yao said nothing in return, unsure how to respond to an expression like that. Katyusha seemed to sense this and chuckled.

'Those days didn't last long anyway. I was only ten when the place fell apart. After that I didn't cry so much.'

'Fell apart?'

'Mm.' Katyusha hummed. 'Someone burnt it. The whole place was on fire – we were lucky to get out in time. And to think– 'A giggle escaped her lips. 'That was the only time I had felt so warm in Bragin.' She sighed. 'After that I was taken in by this American couple. They were so kind to me…'

'And Ivan?' Yao asked.

'Ivan…' Katyusha glanced to the side, her expression pained. 'Ivan went somewhere else. They weren't so kind to him there.'

'You mean Glen Hills?' Yao leaned forward, his voice lowered, afraid that Ivan might hear.

Katyusha looked up at him with eyes widened. 'Did he tell you about it? About the things they-'

'It's so nice to see you two getting along!' Ivan crooned, his voice loudly breaking into Yao and Katyusha's quiet exchange of words. Yao leant back in his seat, wondering just how much Ivan had heard. Ivan placed his hands on Katyusha's shoulders and smiled warmly. ' _Bolshoe spasibo_ , Katyusha. You've been of much help to me.'

Katyusha smiled bashfully and chuckled. 'Don't worry about it.' She turned around to Ivan in her seat. 'It was everything you needed, right? The amounts were fine too?'

Ivan nodded. ' _Da_.'

'That's good.' She smiled and got up from her seat. 'I should probably go now. It's a long drive back home. Ivan, I'll see you again in a couple weeks.' She turned to Yao. 'It was nice meeting you, Yao.' She walked over and hugged him perhaps too tightly for Yao's comfort. 'Take care.'

'Y-Yeah.'

Katyusha pulled back and walked to the front door with Ivan, leaving Yao alone with this thoughts and recollections of what Katyusha had only shared with him a few moments ago. He still had yet to uncover the happenings of Glen Hills Asylum - although whether or not he wanted to, was something he wasn't entirely certain of. Whatever it was, it was the making of the beast Yao lived with. That in itself, made Yao's stomach churn uneasily.

* * *

Yao pressed the knife down the old man's chest as it rose and fell frantically, his cries muffled as a trail of blood formed. Yao dragged the knife down slowly, contemplating on the various ways in which he could tear this man up, the man whose cheek was scratched as if nails had been dug into it. Yao had seen the photos on this man's fireplace, photos of his wife and children smiling brightly. But Yao had also seen the bloody paddle hanging menacingly by the door, its red stained wood telling Yao just what those children's wails sounded like, what their pained expressions looked like.

 _Now, it's your turn to scream._ Yao thought as he dug in the knife a little deeper, wishing he could remove the gag so he could appreciate the agony resounded from the man's sunken mouth - so that Ivan could enjoy it, too.

It was then that the knife stopped midway, a sudden thought striking him as he looked up at Ivan, who had decided to make himself comfortable on an armchair nearby as he watched. 'Ivan?' He asked, brushing the hair out his eyes with his free hand.

'Yes, _myshka?_ ' Ivan's eyes lit up in curiosity, his head resting on his hand leisurely. He was, perhaps, enjoying the role of the spectator a little too much for Yao's liking.

'I've never seen you kill anyone.' Yao stated bluntly, pulling the knife out and letting it dangle loosely in his hand as he stood up.

'Ah, yes…' Ivan smiled wistfully. 'You haven't.'

Yao blinked. 'Well… can I?'

'Why would you want to do that?' Ivan tilted his head, his brows furrowed. 'Aren't you enjoying this?'

'I want to see you do it.' Yao hopped over the tied up man on the floor, extending the dripping knife to Ivan. Ivan looked at his hand with restrained interest, taking the knife gently from him.

'You won't get a question answered if I do it.' Ivan looked up at Yao. His words were reluctant, but his glistened eyes betrayed excitement.

'That's fine.' Yao responded curtly. He could put his curiosity on hold for a day. Until then, he wanted to see the beast that always lurked beneath the surface, the one that taunted Yao's nightmares but never quite revealed itself fully. He wanted to unleash that terror, to see if it truly was the monster he had always expected it to be. Perhaps then Yao could have some peace of mind, knowing that they were both the same horrid creature the world detested and abhorred.

Ivan stood up from his seat, taking hold of Yao's elbow. 'You'll want to sit down, _myshka._ ' He smiled gently. 'And whatever happens… don't run away.'

This should have terrified Yao, sent chills down his spine, but instead he found himself feeling ticked off by the statement. Run away? How could Yao do that after having bludgeoned a man to death, shred a body up into little pieces, and watched a man's face dissolve away? He sat in the armchair with an unnerved expression on his face, although a tiny little feeling of dread started to build up in the pit of his stomach as he watched Ivan approach the man on the floor. Yao crossed his arms and sat back, taking a deep breath that he hoped Ivan would not hear.

Ivan circled around the man slowly, carefully as he seemed to study him. His eyes traveled up and down the old man's frail form, perhaps deciding what he would have to break first. He leant down by the man's contorted face, pulling his chin to the side so that their eyes met.

'It's so very different now, isn't it?' Ivan murmured, his lips curved gently. The man's eyes widened, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and glazed with terror. Ivan's pale hand hovered the knife over the man's face, teasing him. Slowly, the knife was brought towards the man's left eye, drawing in closer and closer until a faint squelch echoed in the room. Screams of horror were buried beneath the cloth in his mouth, but it was enough to make Yao's cross his arms tighter, his hands becoming cold and clammy as he listened. He watched Ivan work the knife into the eye socket, his expression drawn as if he were concentrating. Ivan pulled the knife out and thrashed it into the man's other eye, this time twisting it in more violently. Yao's mouth went sour as he sat there motionless, the noises making him feel sick to the stomach. But despite this, he kept his gaze fixed on Ivan, on the path of the knife as it carved up the man's face.

Perhaps tired of the knife, Ivan threw it aside and rummaged through his bag. He was silent, almost as if unaware of Yao's presence as he pulled out an axe from the bag. Yao drew his legs to his chest in the armchair as he watched, afraid that whilst in this trance Ivan just might kill anyone. In this little corner of the room, Yao would have simply blended into the background for Ivan, nothing more than a fly on the wall.

Ivan raised the axe above his head, crashing it down into the man's leg. Bone was exposed, the axe coming down once more to sever it. Shrieks resounded and began to falter with every limb torn, and by the time Ivan had chopped off the man's last arm, his cries where nothing more than a whimper. Ivan knelt down to the man's face and shook him.

'You can't pass out just yet…' Ivan spoke sweetly, the childish lilt in his voice making Yao swallow nervously. 'There's no fun in this if you can't feel anything, _da?_ ' The old man groaned, barely audible as blood spilled out of him from every ripped up limb. He was slipping away with every second, and perhaps knowing this Ivan became frustrated, swinging the axe into his chest and belly monstrously, ferociously. There was no control anymore, the beast completely emerging from the depths of Ivan's tender expression as blood splattered everywhere. It painted everything red, coated Ivan's terrifying glare as he hacked away at the lump of flesh in front of him. His amused and gentle smile had been wiped away, replaced by a grave and solemn expression. Yao could not see the hate in Ivan's eyes. He could not see malice or anger. There was only a vacant, faraway look on Ivan's pale face, as if lost somewhere in the crimson ribbons he was creating with every swing. It was as if Ivan felt nothing, numbed by the sound of flesh being ripped apart. It was this expression that made Yao choke on a cry of terror as witnessed the monster inside Ivan reveal itself.

It was suddenly quiet, Ivan holding the axe loosely by his side as blood trickled down onto the floor. He looked up from the carnage he had created, dark eyes finding Yao curled up in the armchair. The axe dropped with a loud clang, and Ivan's towering figure began to stagger towards Yao. Yao flinched, wanting to run, to leave right away, as Ivan's distant and ghoul-like expression approached him. But Ivan's strides were large, and before Yao could even set his foot down on the floor, he was trapped by Ivan's looming frame. Yao pressed himself as far back into the chair as he could, a sickening feeling of dread sweeping over him as he waited.

A quiet chuckle shattered the silence that had fallen, Ivan stumbling onto his knees in front of the armchair. ' _Ochi chernye…_ I'm so glad you stayed.' Ivan's words were softly spoken, his eyes still not quite in the present moment as he smiled drowsily at Yao. 'It's nice, isn't it? Having friends…'

'Y-Yeah…' Yao croaked out, his mouth suddenly dry. He exhaled deeply and attempted to calm his thumping heart down, to make the painful churning of his stomach subside a little. He didn't want Ivan to know just how terrified he had been. He glanced at Ivan uneasily, waiting for that cloudy look in his eyes to fade away.

'Look at our hands…' Ivan took hold of Yao's hand with his own, intertwining their bloodied fingers together. 'We're the same.' Ivan spoke the words wistfully, the gentleness returning into his eyes as he seemed to drink in the feel of Yao's trembling hand. There was a long stretch of silence, Yao staying motionless in Ivan's ice cold grip. Even coated in freshly spilt blood, his hands were cold. It was in this moment that Yao couldn't help but feel as if he as holding the hand of a long forgotten child that was still seeking recognition, still looking for that warmth it never had. The monster had retreated back into the murky depths of Ivan's mind, leaving behind a juvenile kind of wonder and amusement in his amethyst eyes.

Hesitantly, Yao reached up and wiped off a splotch of blood on Ivan's face, only for it to smear and cover a larger portion of Ivan's ghostly pale skin. Even when smothered in crimson, Ivan did not look like the killer that he was.

'Yeah…' Yao spoke weakly, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. 'We're the same.'

Ivan's eyes seemed to brighten at this, leaning into Yao's retreating hand like puppy desperately aching for affection. ' _Da…_ ' He murmured, perhaps comforted by this notion as much as Yao was.

The night fell into a quiet hum, drowning them in silence. But it was one that Yao was happy to let himself fall into, to absorb the calm before the storm. It was only after spilling so much blood that either of them could comfortably fall into this kind of silence, to feel at ease. Once the metallic smell of blood settled in the air, once a last breath escaped a torn man's lips, everything slowed down. The world stopped spinning so dizzyingly fast and every second became a blissful eternity, because it was only then that Yao found himself living in the moment. It was only after killing a man, after feeling his pulse ebb away, that Yao's own pulse became ever present.

Once again, Yao found himself wanting to speak these words to Ivan _(surely the feeling is the same for him?)_ , but he only had to look into Ivan's lilac eyes to know that he, too, clung on to this twisted euphoria. It was a bittersweet truth that Yao had learnt to accept – tranquility like this simply could not be born without sacrifice. And it was these sacrifices, these acts of cruelty, that Yao and Ivan were more than willing to make.


	7. For You, Retribution

The flames licked and spat into the pitch black night sky, illuminating it with a crackling warmth that Ivan had never seen nor felt before. Even from this distance, the crumbling, blackening building gave off a radiance that reached Ivan's tiny shivering frame, the tears from his eyes quickly drying away. He grasped the girl's hand tighter as he watched, his eyes lost in the roaring flames and the brittle wood that it engulfed. The fire was eating away at it, tearing into what was once a formidable prison for Ivan. He eagerly absorbed every sound, every sight, inhaling the thick smell of burning charcoal as it rose up in the night air.

To Katyusha next to him, it was a terrifying spectacle, an image that would hang over her wearily for a long time. But for Ivan, it was a new beginning. In order to create anew, something must be destroyed – even at his young age, Ivan understood this well. After all, what other reason was there for the purple blemishes that covered his body? For the agonizing pain of an empty stomach? For the searing thrash of a belt across his trembling back? It was just as they said. For Ivan to be a good boy, he had to learn his lesson. He had to be punished.

However, _they_ had not been good. The giants who did as they pleased, who sought every opportunity to inflict pain – _they_ were the bad children. They did more than just punish. They reveled in it, greedily drank up spilt tears like hungry dogs. It only seemed right for someone to discipline them for it.

Ivan felt Katyusha squeeze his hand as the orphanage roof collapsed, the ribbons of fire spitting and rising higher with a low rumble. There were screams, wails and cries overtaken by the roaring of flames. Not everyone had made it out, some perhaps burnt alive in their own beds. Children younger than Ivan, swallowed up by the building as it fell to the ground, immolated by Ivan's own hand. A drop of the match it had been… and the beautiful flames grew and grew, as if by Ivan's own design. They spread and coiled around everything, dragging the rotten prison down into the barren ground, into ashes and dust where it belonged. He relished in the destruction left by his own bony hands, watching it unravel as if hypnotized.

It was a kind of beauty that Ivan was too young to comprehend, a kind that an eight year old's words could not even begin to describe. In time, however, as Ivan grew and grew like the flames he had been born out of, he would come to understand it. There was perhaps no word for it, the nameless beast that resided in Ivan's heart. But it was the things that you could not name that were often the most beautiful, the most spectacular.

It was this that Ivan encompassed, even as the flames that reflected in his eyes died out and dissipated. Even as his identity was stripped away, as his innocence was shred into wisps, as his face grew pale and sickly. When all was taken away, it was only the beast that had remained.

* * *

 _This one's a fighter._ Yao thought bitterly as he struggled to keep the man still. He was a large, bulky man – almost twice the size of Yao. Regardless, Yao had managed to tie his hands and legs on his own. It was placing the gag in his mouth that seemed to be a difficulty. The man's bald head thrashed side to side, yelling and screaming. But the noise was not an issue. The house was large and empty, comfortably placed amidst wilderness and large fields. Not even the night birds would hear him scream. Yao's patience, however, was beginning to wear thin with every ounce of strength the man was struggling with.

'Ivan.' Yao looked over to the fireplace, its warmth crackling and spitting into the dim room. Ivan was stood in front of it, eyes glazed over as he stared into the flames. His expression was drawn and focused, as if an old memory were playing out in front of him. 'Ivan.' Yao called out again, a little louder this time.

Ivan turned around, his expression looking lost as he blinked at Yao. 'Yes, _myshka?_ '

Yao straddled the bald man and pushed his hands down on the man's large shoulders in his attempt to keep him still. He looked to Ivan, somewhat unnerved by his lack of participation. 'A little help here would be apprecia-'

The man abruptly rolled over, knocking Yao down and crushing him with his weight. The man threw his head back and knocked it against Yao's forehead with a sickening thwack. Sparks of light exploded in Yao's eyes, a throbbing pain sprouting on his forehead as he struggled and clawed at the heavier man. The bald man gnashed and snapped at Yao, resorting to using even his own teeth in a desperate struggle for survival. A pair of gloved hands gripped the bald man's shoulders from behind, lifting him off Yao and throwing him to the side. The man fell against the wall with a loud thud, knocking down a mirror in the process. Glass shattered and spread across the floor, the sound piercing Yao's aching head as he sat up.

'You're bleeding, _myshka.'_ Ivan offered a hand to Yao, not particularly minding the bald man crawling on his belly as he recovered. Yao took Ivan's gloved hand and pulled himself up.

'I'm fine.' Yao felt his forehead for the injury, wincing as his hand met a bloody patch of skin. 'I'll take care of it later.' He looked to the bald man as he crept towards the door like a worm, a pathetic attempt at an escape. He wondered if the man really thought he could make it out of this house alive, if he genuinely believed there was even a sliver of a chance. 'Let's take care of him first.'

'Mm. _Da._ ' Ivan hummed thoughtfully, joining Yao in watching the man wriggle across the laminated floor with an apathetic interest. 'Do you know who he is?' He asked, his eyes still fixed on the bald man as he said this.

Yao turned to Ivan, his curiosity peaked. '…Who was-'

'I'll tell you.' Ivan's gaze flickered towards Yao somewhat teasingly, as if they were playing a game of sorts. 'No need to ask.' Yao furrowed his brows in puzzlement, to which Ivan smiled lightly before continuing.

'This man,' Ivan stepped towards the pitiful figure on the floor, his heavy boots making a dreadful sound as they approached him. 'is Dr. Rothaugen.' He shut the door the man had been so desperately reaching for. Ivan then placed his boot onto the man's hand, slowly pressing down to crush it. The man screamed out, and Yao couldn't help but think-

_(You should reserve that scream for the real pain.)_

'He worked at the Glen Hills Asylum.' Ivan spoke as his the sound of bones crumbling resounded beneath his boot, his voice steady and calm. 'Remember that, _doctor?_ '

'Please…' The man whimpered. 'I don't know what you want from me. Just tell me. I'll give you any-' Ivan twisted his boot, eliciting a cry from the bald man. 'Please…' The man continued to cry and beg incomprehensibly.

'You told me I was sick.' Ivan knelt down, his foot still not easing off the man's hand. 'That I needed help…Look at me.' He grabbed the man's chin and roughly tilted it up, Ivan's voice barely restraining a growl as he spoke. 'I said look at me.'

The man's contorted face stared up at Ivan, his eyes wide and full of terror. Then, upon seeing Ivan's face, something changed. Recognition, perhaps, as his expression morphed into one of shock. A startling laugh left the man's curled lips. 'You were one of them, weren't you? I suppose I should be glad you're not dead, then! Sixteen years later and the drug still hasn't killed you.' The man laughed louder, more nervously. 'If you ask me, that's a good result!'

Ivan stood up, his foot lifting off to reveal a pulpy mess of a hand, bleeding out into the laminated floor. 'You did more than treat me for a disease I didn't have. You remember that?' Ivan began to pace around the man, his expression cooling and becoming vacant, the beast slowly emerging. Yao shifted his balance as he watched, uneasiness sprouting in his stomach.

'What are you talking about?' The man's face was reddening as he continued to laugh uncontrollably, his mangled hand lying uselessly in front of him. 'Oh! Oh, you don't mean-'

Ivan stepped onto the man's other hand, pressing into it as bones cracked. A cry of pain pierced the air, still riddled with the unsettling cackles that escaped the man's mouth. 'You were never punished for it.' Ivan glared into the man as if he were no more than a pathetic worm writhing beneath his boot. 'But I can help you with that, _da?_ '

'You'll punish me the way I punished you, is that it?' The man grinned, twisting his head to look at Ivan with crazed eyes. 'The way I made sure you kept your little mouth shut?'

Ivan said nothing in response, a flicker of anger falling across his eyes before his mask of composure returned. Yao took a step closer, knowing he shouldn't interfere and yet not being able to stop himself from doing so.

'What did he do to you, Ivan?'

Ivan looked up at Yao, his expression melting into one of pain, of not being able to speak the words that were trapped in him for so long. It was this subtle expression that told Yao everything – of the hurt and terror Ivan had felt at the hands of this man, of the bruises that would have been patterned across his skin, of the tears spilt by a child who knew nothing of comfort and warmth. Yao could see the cruelty in the man's beady eyes, the insatiable malice in his grin. Yao felt Ivan's resentment towards him, the anger that so desperately wanted to be unleashed. Yao understood in this one moment what Ivan's words could not convey.

Taking out his pocket knife, Yao approached the man on the floor without another word. He knelt down by his head, tilting it up to face Yao. He pried open the man's mouth, pulling his tongue so that it stuck out. The man's eyes widened in realization, his head shaking and voice crying for mercy. 'You won't be needing this anymore.' Yao spoke softly, slicing the knife through the man's tongue. Deep, deep crimson red spilled out of the bald man's mouth, a puddle quickly blooming out onto the floor. Yao flipped the man over so that he was on his back. He looked up to Ivan, finding him smiling gently at Yao.

'Keep his head propped up.' Yao told Ivan. 'We don't want him choking on his blood.'

'Of course… _.'_ Ivan spoke quietly, his eyes gazing fondly at Yao. 'I'll do that for you.' He sat down by the man, placing his bald head onto his lap and tilting it upright. He placed the gag into his mouth to soak up the blood as Yao proceeded to trace the knife around questioningly. What would Yao tear up first? What fragile piece of flesh should he rip up into tiny little pieces?

Yao's eyes settled onto the man's mangled hands, the one that was bloodied and barely a hand anymore. The other, however, was merely bruised and broken. Yes… there was plenty of work to do there. Yao took hold of the man's trembling hand, the knife flicking and slicing away the skin, slicing away the rotten flesh that had once marred Ivan. Tearing away the hand that so viciously destroyed and defiled the frail little child whose eyes were so weary and afraid of the world. Ripping apart the form that had abused and violated countless of children, eating away at their innocence day by day. When all but a flayed hand was left, twitching and writhing in agony, Yao moved up higher. Removing the repulsive skin there, too. Peeling away until the man's muffled shrieks became music to Yao's ears. The man still resisted, still struggled, but Ivan kept him still - kept him watching and feeling every piece of his being tear away.

When Yao lost interest in the ugly, bare arm, he dragged his knife across the man's chest. He marked him with red crosses, red lines and curves, until the blank canvas had become something hideous and malformed. Crimson paint to mark the vessel of a repulsive and rotten heart. The man's screams became louder, so much that the bloodied cloth no longer concealed it, shrieks ringing out into the room and through the hallways. But no one would hear. No one would come. He belonged to the knife's jagged edge now, clay that was to be molded by Yao. Molded until he looked like the monster that he was. Yao worked the knife into the man's face, drawing lines around and around his eyes until they met soft and squelching pupils. Beady little eyes became soups of red, a mouth contorted by screams became a grin, and the mask that concealed a monster was peeled away.

Yao sat back to examine what he had created – no, what he had revealed – and looked to Ivan's blood flecked face, beaming with a juvenile kind of excitement. Yao stood up and walked over to Ivan's bag, opening it and rummaging through it. Somehow, he knew what he was looking for, although he could not at the time understand exactly why he was looking for it. His body moved as if of its own accord, Yao merely spectating himself from a distance. His hands felt around the bag until they touched the cold handle of a gun. He pulled the small revolver out of the bag and slid it across the floor, towards the crying, mangled man. Ivan looked at the gun curiously, picking it up gently.

'No, Ivan.' Yao said. 'Leave it there, by his hand. Come and watch from here.' He gestured to the space next to him. Ivan dropped the gun by the man's hand and stood up, making his way to Yao's side. His expression was puzzled, unsure of Yao. Yao smiled at him reassuringly before turning to the man on the floor.

'There's a gun next to you, doctor.' Yao spoke coldly, his voice not trembling like it used to when blood had been spilt. 'Now I know you don't practice euthanasia… but I think your case makes a very compelling argument, don't you think?' Yao approached the man, his knife dangling in his hand. His footsteps were not quite as heavy as Ivan's, but even so the man flinched with every soft thud. 'I'm afraid the only thing waiting for you now is agonizing pain, doctor. I'll make sure you feel every excruciating stab of it when I start slicing away at your legs.' Yao gently kicked the man's foot, but it was enough to send him whimpering in dread. 'However, the gun is waiting for you, too. It's right next to you. Just pick it up, put it to your head, and pull the trigger. Wouldn't that be a nice way to go?'

And then, without even a moment's consideration, the bald man's shaking hand reached for the gun and grasped it with quivering fingers. Yao stepped back, standing next to Ivan to watch it all unfold before him. The man, like a marionette whose strings were being manipulated, raised the gun to his head with a disfigured hand. His hand slipped and dropped the gun into a pool of his own blood, groaning in agony as he reached for it again. He picked it up and held it to his head, the revolver wobbling by his temple. He cocked the gun and fired.

A loud bang echoed in the room, piercing Yao's ears as he jumped up in surprise. He had not expected it to be so loud. He had not expected the overpowering smell of gunpowder and the ringing in his ears, either. But even so, the sight before him – a limp and flayed man – had become an oddly satisfying one. He looked to Ivan, finding him already staring at Yao.

' _Ochi chernye_ …' Ivan murmured, his eyes betraying a strange mix of emotions. Yao saw a kind of amusement in his eyes, but he also saw something else flickering in his lilac irises. Was it uncertainty? Mourning? Yao wasn't sure. It was a strange, delicate expression that gazed back at him, and Yao could feel the invisible snakes returning as they wrapped around his chest. The room was suffocating him, drowning him in the blood soaked air, although he did not know why. Speechless, Yao stood there with the knife still dripping in his hands.

Almost without warning, Ivan closed in on Yao and cradled his face with gloved hands. For a fleeting moment, Yao wished there hadn't been a glove between Yao's skin and Ivan's hand, longing for the familiar ice cold touch that made him shiver. ' _Vizhu traur v vas po dushe moyei…'_ Ivan crooned, his lilac eyes luring Yao closer – perhaps dangerously close – to him. Foreign words spilled out of Ivan's lips teasingly, their meanings tangled and riddled between vodka scented breath and the amethyst gaze that bore into Yao. He was lost in those cryptic words, the musty smell of blood and gunpowder fading away into the background as he felt his own breath become shallow.

Overwhelmed and unsure, Yao instinctively pulled away from Ivan, his pulse beating and throbbing loudly in his ears as he struggled to rationalize what was happening. He averted his eyes to anywhere but Ivan, taking feigned interest in the hideous corpse on the floor. '…I don't think he'll fit in the body bag.' Yao said curtly.

'We can just burn him here.' Ivan smiled gently, his hand clamped onto Yao's tense shoulder. 'No need to carry him all the way home.'

'R-Right.' Yao nodded weakly, the word _home_ somehow sounding strange in his ears. He wouldn't exactly call that crumbling house a _home_ , exactly… and yet in some way it was precisely just that. The suffocating feeling returned to Yao as he thought this, a kind of nervousness overtaking him as he and Ivan proceeded to cut up the man together, throwing limbs into the fire. The smell that rose up from the flames was an unbearably rotten stench, making Yao choke on the air as he breathed. Ivan, however, didn't seem to mind, his eyes lingering onto the fire with fascination as flesh scorched and burned.

When the flayed man was nothing but ash, Yao put out the fire – noting the flicker of disappointment on Ivan's face. They left the house wordlessly, Yao nearly falling asleep against the window in the car as Ivan drove, his limbs aching for a soft bed to melt into. When they finally got home, Yao went straight for his room, stomach empty but eyes too drowsy to care. He threw himself onto the bed and felt his eyes close effortlessly against the pillow. Silence. Yao could finally rest, the absence of blood scented air having turned into a strange luxury in recent times.

The sound of the door creaking open jolted Yao out of his drowsiness, a sound of heavy footsteps approaching the bed. A small sigh escaped Yao's lips, shuffling to the side of the bed in anticipation of yet another one of Ivan's odd, drunken rambles. The light flickered on, making Yao squint his eyes as he turned to look at Ivan, whose expression was placid as ever.

'Something wrong?' Yao croaked out.

Ivan gestured to the cotton pads and antiseptic in his hands. 'Your wound.'

Yao blinked, his hand reaching for his temple to find dried blood. 'Oh, right…' He furrowed his brows, wondering how he had forgotten about the cut on his head. Then, without invitation, Ivan seated himself on the edge of the bed and began pressing antiseptic drenched cotton onto the wound. Yao winced, Ivan's hand pressing a little too hard on the wound and antiseptic trickling down his temple. Yao didn't have to ask to know this was Ivan's first time treating someone else. He bit back a complaint and waited, Ivan taking his time in 'cleaning' the wound – though Yao had a feeling Ivan was doing this deliberately.

'Why are you doing this?' Yao asked, his temple stinging and burning. Ivan pulled back the cotton wad and furrowed his brows.

'So the wound doesn't get infected.'

'N-No, I meant…' Yao gestured his hands into the air, not sure himself what he was gesturing at exactly when he spoke. 'This.' He looked to Ivan and hoped he understood. Yao couldn't put into words what 'this' was, or rather, it wasn't something he wanted to put into words out loud. Killing and butchering people, dissolving them away in acid, listening to Ivan's soft ramblings at night – these strange and unsettling things which had become so normal to Yao. When Ivan only returned a perplexed look, Yao sighed.

'When I first met you, at the Poisoned Apple… that wasn't the first time I saw you.' Yao propped himself up on the bed. 'You had been following me around for weeks.'

Ivan's eyes lit up. 'Ah, yes. I remember…' He smiled nostalgically, as if recalling a pleasant memory. Yao supposed that for Ivan, stalking someone might have just been a fun game. However, there was still something Yao didn't quite understand.

'But why were you following _me_?' Yao asked, studying Ivan's expression as he said this.

Ivan blinked back, perhaps caught off guard by the question. Then, as if to conceal this, he chuckled lightly. 'You've already asked your question today, _myshka_.'

Yao sat up. 'No, I haven't.'

' _Da_ , you did.' Ivan tilted his head playfully. 'Just before you killed the doctor.'

'But you didn't answer that question. So I'll ask another one instead.' Yao said, shifting uncomfortably beneath Ivan's amused gaze. 'Why'd you stalk me?'

Ivan sighed lightly. His gaze now trailed away from Yao, looking into something distant and far away for a moment, before returning his lilac irises to Yao. A soft smile graced Ivan's lips, a gesture that made Yao's stomach twist and churn. It was strange, how both Ivan's tender smile and his terrifying glare seemed to affect Yao in the same way. Was it fear he felt when Ivan smiled? Or perhaps it was some other, deeply buried and nameless feeling that ailed him.

Nearly forgetting himself and where he was, Yao flustered as he wrought out the words. 'You're not answering the question.'

Suddenly being in the same room with this man became uncomfortable for Yao, weariness settling over him as he watched Ivan, who merely continued to smile at Yao wordlessly. A momentary silence fell, and Yao wasn't sure if it was because Ivan didn't know what to say, or if he was deliberately keeping quiet to unsettle Yao. A dangerous kind of playfulness was written in Ivan's expression, one that made the air stifling and overwhelming for Yao. He struggled to breathe normally, to think clearly, and could only huff out in frustration.

'Never mind. I'm going to sleep.' Yao scowled as he buried himself back into the bedsheets. 'Close the light on the way out.' He muffled into the pillow curtly, waiting for Ivan to leave. A hand gripped Yao's shoulder, Yao's entire body immobilized by this one touch.

 _'_ _Sladkikh snov, myshka.'_ Ivan murmured, his hand releasing Yao's shoulder gently. Footsteps resounded in the room, the quiet click of a light switch allowing Yao to release a breath. He was enveloped in pitch black darkness, the sheets wrapped around him tightly and securely. He should have fallen asleep easily, as effortlessly as before. The drowsiness, however, was gone and left him with an uneasy alertness. Alone with his own thoughts, his own strange and tangled emotions, sleep did not come easy.

The bald man's screams and shrieks rang in Yao's head. Skin peeling. Blood flowing. Ugly and hideous sights and sounds. But in their own monstrosity, they were beautiful. There was something just so right about it, about seeing that man's face contorted in unbearable agony and suffering. A poetic kind of justice, Yao supposed. A cruel aesthetic that only broken people could enjoy.

And then there was Ivan's blood flecked face, white and glowing in the warm light of the fireplace. His tender smile and the bittersweet expression in his eyes. Everything about Ivan was tainted, marred in some way. Child-like happiness blemished by old bruises. Affection poisoned by the memory of pain. Yao wondered if he too, would be intoxicated by this imperfect bliss - if perhaps he was becoming the very same beast that he feared in Ivan. The very same beast that Yao was finding himself wanting to protect, to shield from further harm.

Yao was slipping away, away into a dark abyss of emotions he could not cope with. It was with this thought that the black curtain fell over Yao's eyes, drowning him in dreams of crimson red ribbons and ice cold hands.


	8. Why Does it Ache?

Yao stared vacantly at the line of chainsaws on the wall, large and monstrous looking machines with jagged teeth. Teeth that could rip into soft and malleable flesh, slice through bone effortlessly. So many of them, poised and displayed for Ivan to choose from. They all looked the same to Yao, the numbers and colorful tags plastered on the chainsaws failing to convince him otherwise. As far as he was concerned, any one of these would do.

'How about this one, _myshka_? _'_

Yao turned to Ivan, who had a large black and orange box in his arms, _'THE BRAND NEW STIHL MS 171'_ plastered in large letters on the front. Yao leant forward to read the tiny letters beneath it.

'I don't understand what any of this means.' Yao glanced up at Ivan, not sure why he had even bothered to ask Yao for his opinion. After all, Ivan was the expert in these kinds of things.

'It has a long-life air filter system that prevents premature clogging.' Ivan beamed. 'It also has side-mounted chain tensioning. Doesn't that sound good?'

'Yeah… I guess.' Yao withheld an exasperated sigh, desperately wanting to do something other than talk about chainsaws and clogging. 'Let's get this one, then.'

Ivan looked down at the box in his arms for a moment as if to consider it. 'Maybe I should get an electric carving knife instead…' He snapped his head up to Yao. 'It would cut through so much more neatly than a chainsaw, _da_? _'_

Yao huffed out, his agitation no longer concealed by feigned patience. 'Well, where do we have to go for those?'

Ivan set the box back onto the shelf. 'They won't have them here… We'll have to go to another store.' Then, perhaps noticing Yao's irritation, he smiled gently. 'But we can look at other things here, so the trip wouldn't have been a waste.' Ivan pulled Yao by the arm. 'Come on, _myshka._ Maybe you'll see something you need.'

Yao humored Ivan and pretended to look around the place in interest, although he really had no intention of getting anything. He hated going to places like these, stores just full of shelves upon shelves of tools Yao would never use, the smell of plastic and rubber giving him a headache. Ivan, however, was beaming in enthusiasm and interest at every shovel and piece of machinery.

'Look, wouldn't these be fun to use?' Ivan nudged Yao, taking a pair of shears off a shelf.

Yao warily glanced at the shears, noting the razor sharp edge and how easily that could snip off a finger or a toe. He took it from Ivan's hands, inspecting it a little more closely. 'Maybe.' Yao spoke softly, eyes drawn on his own hand as it gripped the rubber handle of the shears. He squeezed the handle, watching the blades snap open, like a creature with his fangs primed for attack. He turned to look at Ivan, only to find him gone, as if he had soundlessly melted away.

'Ivan?' Yao whipped around, bumping into someone in the process. 'Sorry.' He mumbled, his eyes scanning the store for Ivan. He shouldn't have felt panic at Ivan's absence, but he did, a tightening feeling overtaking his chest.

'Yao?' A hand clamped onto his shoulder. Yao flinched and turned around to the source of the voice, immediately recognizing the concerned expression that he was met with.

'Yong Soo.' Yao blinked, the other brunette pulling him in abruptly for a tight hug. 'What are you doing here?'

'What are _you_ doing here?' Yong Soo pulled away, although his hands were still locked onto Yao's shoulders. 'You disappeared, Yao! I thought you were, like, kidnapped or something!'

Yao chuckled weakly. 'N-No. I'm fine.' He pried Yong Soo's hands off his shoulders. 'I'm just… shopping.' He gestured to the pair of shears in his hands. 'For my new place.' Yao added, the lie feeling oddly light on his tongue as he said it.

Yong Soo glanced at his hands, his face paling. 'Yao, what the hell is this?' He grabbed Yao's left wrist, still bandaged from when Yao had cut himself. Yong Soo's brown eyes looked up to glare at Yao. 'Don't tell me that's what I think it is.'

'It's not.' Yao pulled his hand away, urging himself to come up with some reasonable excuse quickly. 'I… I dropped a glass when I was washing dishes.'

'What happened there?' Yong Soo grabbed Yao's other arm, tracing over the swollen patch of skin where acid had splashed onto Yao. His eyes flitted to Yao's own, quickly drawn to the top of Yao's head. 'And you've got a cut on your forehead, too.' Yong Soo clamped his hands to either side of Yao's head, studying every inch of skin for further bruises or cuts. 'What the hell happened to you, Yao?'

'N-Nothing.' Yao hissed, aware of the attention being drawn to him and Yong Soo. 'Let go of me!' Yao wrestled Yong Soo's hands off. 'Nothing's happened to me. I'm _fine_.'

'You're not, Yao. You're hurting yourself, aren't you?' Yong Soo's hands gripped Yao's shoulders, tenaciously holding on to Yao. Yao felt irritation and anger boiling up inside of him just at the clingy touch of this man. 'Look, I know things must look pretty bleak right now. I've been there.' Yong Soo spoke loudly and brusquely, completely insensitively in spite of the words that seemed to spill out of his mouth. 'You're having a tough time getting a job, I know that. But getting angry – hurting yourself – isn't going to help.'

'You don't even know what you're talking about.' Yao seethed, struggling to put some distance between himself and Yong Soo's infuriatingly loud voice.

'Come and stay with me, Yao. I'll find someone to help you – there's doctors for this, you know!'

 _Shut him up._ A soft voice drifted across Yao's mind, teasing and lingering. _Make him quiet._

Yao gripped the shears in his hands tightly, opening and closing it slowly and with forced restraint. Words no longer reached Yao's ears. All he heard was the warbling of a nuisance. A pest that refused to leave him alone.

'Both me and Jin can be there for you. We're practically family, Yao.' Yong Soo's voice pierced Yao's ears, ringing and demanding to be heard by everyone.

_Shut him up._

Yao considered it. He considered it carefully, blinded with rage but guided by cold and apathetic clarity. He felt the strength build up in his hands, trembling as they sought to push away Yong Soo – perhaps to do a little more than that. Just a little more so that Yong Soo would stay away for sure, so that he would learn a lesson he should have learned long ago.

'We can help. You don't have to go through this alone.' Yong Soo's voice barked, persisted, nagged at Yao.

_Shut him up. Shut him up. Shut him up._

Yao didn't care for those passing by with curious looks, nor for the store security cameras. It wouldn't be the first time, would it? It wouldn't be the first time that Yao had beaten someone to a pulp, felt rage boil over as he crushed a man's face. How had Yao not realized it all those months ago, those days when he was trapped in dull and endless cycles of office work and gulps of bitter, stale coffee? Before Ivan, before Yao had even felt pulse of the scar faced man fade away beneath his knife, there was a feeling unspoken. An immense need in seeing his own bloody knuckles beat and thrash away at the pests that irritated and ate away at Yao's patience for a mundane and colorless life. A want – an urge - to paint his world crimson red.

The monster had been hidden away in Yao since the very beginning. The only difference was that now, Yao wouldn't hesitate to bare his fangs.

Yao let the shears snap shut. He would need the edge pointed. Glaring into Yong Soo's face, contorted with such fake concern, Yao felt his frustration and anger burn in him like an insatiable flame. It was time to peel that ugly mask away.

_Tear it away until there's nothing left._

'I'm sorry, boys,' A deep voice spoke behind Yao. 'But you're going to have to calm down or I'm afraid I'll be escorting you two out.'

Yong Soo released his grip on Yao. 'Sorry about that.' A sheepish smile spread across his face. 'We'll keep it down.' Yao suddenly felt very conscious of the eyes watching him, of the aching of his hand as it grasped the shears tightly. As if snapping out of a trance, Yao blinked and felt sick to the stomach in realization of what had just been going through his mind. His hand loosened and dropped the shears, a clang echoing out into the store.

_What was I thinking?_

Yong Soo bent down and picked up the shears. He handed it back to Yao, is expression light and ignorant of what those shears could have been doing had the man not intervened. 'You dropped these, Yao.'

Yao took the shears with trembling hands, unable to look into Yong Soo's eyes without remembering the overpowering hatred he had felt for such a brief and terrifying moment.

'I realize I can't force you to live with me or get help, Yao.' Yong Soo sighed and pulled a card out of his pocket. 'But if you ever need anything – anything at all – just call me, okay?'

Yao took the card, frowning at the elaborate design, 'The Poisoned Apple' inscribed on it.

Yong Soo laughed. 'I know, I know. But um…since you left, me and Jin have become 'business associates'. We kinda run the place together now. Sounds cool, doesn't it? That's still my number on the card, though! It's got Jin's too, if you ever need him.'

Yao only nodded weakly, words failing him as he still felt his pulse throb loudly in his ears. Yong Soo slapped Yao's back and smiled.

'I'll see you around then. Don't hesitate to call, okay?'

'…Yeah.' Yao croaked out as he watched Yong Soo walk away, bouncing with every step as if the world had somehow reset itself, as if the cuts and scars on Yao had faded away and there was nothing left for Yong Soo to worry about. Yao resented that he made everything such a light and trivial matter, but at the same time, he was relieved that he was rid of the loud and brusque man, too.

Yao glanced at the shears in his hands, the feeling of them becoming something repulsive. He put them back on the shelf, unable to even fathom killing someone with those. No, those shears would always have Yong Soo's name written on them. They would always wear the phantom splotches of Yong Soo's blood and what might have been if the beast had completely taken control. In the strangest of ways, those shears were only meant to tear away Yong Soo's breath and Yong Soo's breath only. Yao did not want those shears in his hands.

* * *

Alfred pressed the red thumbtack into the map, taking a step back to see the beast's handiwork in its entirety. It was the third week since the disappearance of little Emily's father, the missing person's reports piling up on Alfred and Kiku's desks mercilessly with every passing day. They had all been older men - some of which had a history of domestic abuse, though the relevance of this to their deaths was still something Alfred and Kiku couldn't say for certain. And in all of the cases, barely a trace of blood, but just about enough ingrained in the carpet or dotted on the ceiling to make them a matter for the homicide department to deal with.

Perhaps the strangest part was the sudden influx of these cases. As Alfred ran his eyes feverishly over the map, he thought about how in the past few weeks alone, twenty men had disappeared. The map was infested with red dots, each one the mark of yet another strike from the beast.

_Almost a body a day…_

The peculiar circumstances in which these men disappeared was not entirely new to Alfred. For the past three years now, there had been sporadic cases like these. They weren't frequent, but over time the names piled up. A silent and almost shy killer, carefully and leisurely eating away at his prey. Slowly, so that perhaps no one would notice. Leaving empty houses in their wake, not a single drop of blood to be found. But now…

_Now the killer's getting sloppy._

Alfred slumped into a chair, a full mug of coffee having gone cold on the conference table beside him. He took a greedy gulp from it anyway and mulled on the latest victim – although whether or not this was the work of the silent killer was something to be reconsidered. A doctor had gone missing, no body nor any witnesses regarding his whereabouts. There were, however, teeth and fragments of bone in his fireplace – both of which were confirmed as Dr. Rothaugen's. Not exactly in line with the killer's usual pattern, but perhaps part of the dwindling self-restraint that they were starting to let go of.

'I'm sorry if I'm interrupting anything,' Alfred snapped his head towards Kiku's voice, finding him standing at the doorway. 'But we've got a witness for Fred Lombard's disappearance. His eight year old son.'

Alfred shot up from his seat. 'Let's go, then. Is he here?'

'Yes, he is…' Kiku's eyes flickered, hesitating with his words as he often did when he had to say something unpleasant. 'Social Services was kind enough to escort him here.'

'And?'

'They… uh, made a request that you not conduct the interview.'

'They?' Alfred approached the doorway. 'Who's _they_?' He peered over Kiku's shoulder, and just as he thought, there she was. The stern faced blonde watching from afar, her hand rapping impatiently on the receptionist's desk. Her icy blue eyes caught Alfred's own, piercing him with an irritated kind of glare. She made her way towards the conference room, heels clacking sharply against the floor as she did so.

'I thought you said he wouldn't be interviewing.' She hissed at Kiku. Kiku turned around to face her and smiled weakly.

'I-I'm taking care of that now, Ms. Sterling. Please excuse the delay-' Kiku turned back to Alfred, his eyes silently imploring Alfred to just let things be. Alfred, however, simply could not turn away from one of the few and rare witnesses this case would ever have.

'If you don't mind me asking, Linda,' Alfred steadied his gaze onto hers, attempting to fend off her hostile glare. 'Is there any particular reason for your request?'

'That's Ms. Sterling to you.' The woman replied dryly. 'And as far as reasons go, I only need to tell you that I'm only looking out for the best interests of the child. Seeing as this entire ordeal is a traumatic one for him, I do not think your presence would ease the process. That is all.' Her eyes flitted to Kiku. 'Mr. Honda, if you don't mind…'

'Yes, uh…Follow me, Ms. Sterling.' Kiku guided the woman away from the conference room, glancing one last time at Alfred uneasily. It was a tough job, appeasing everyone the way Kiku did. But at the end of the day he always managed it, and Alfred supposed that was the only reason the two of them had ever gotten anything out of witnesses or suspects. Kiku had what Alfred lacked, and this way they both worked well together.

Turning back into the conference room with a quiet huff of agitation, he returned to the dotted map. He glanced at it and felt the overwhelming weight of the case burden him. He really hoped that today's witness would prove helpful somehow. Alfred needed this case to go somewhere – anywhere - before the pile of names grew even more, before the trail of this hungry beast went cold. The clock was ticking, and with every step Alfred took, so did the beast. This, Alfred could not allow.

* * *

Yao caught the glimpse of a white scarf, instinctively drawn to it as the panic in his trembling hands ebbed away. Ivan was still here, and for reasons Yao could still not quite understand, he was relieved. He opened the glass door that led out into the store garden, the late afternoon sunlight warming his skin as he approached Ivan. Yao paced himself, deliberately slowed his steps. He should not have to rush to be by Ivan's side, and yet a fluttery kind of anxiety urged him to do so.

Ivan did not appear to have heard his footsteps, his back still turned to Yao. His white scarf fluttered slightly in the summer breeze, the only part of him that seemed to be moving. Silver blonde hair glinted in the sunlight, and Yao found the sight unusual – perhaps because Ivan had the look of a wintry snowman, his hands ice cold and his skin ghostly pale. Yao almost half-expected Ivan to melt in this kind of heat, dissolve into a puddle from the sun's blazing caress.

'There you are.' Yao stood next to Ivan, feigning irritation although he felt none. 'I was looking for you.' When no response was given, Yao followed the mesmerized gaze of Ivan's. Bright, beaming sunflowers met Yao's eyes, Ivan's towering shadow looming over them.

'Did you find anything you liked, _myshka_?'

The memory of the shears crossed Yao's mind, but his lips were faster. 'No.'

Ivan hummed in acknowledgement, his hand reaching for the sunflowers. He caressed them, tracing his finger over the velvety yellow petals. 'You know, I've always dreamt about sunflowers… but I've never really seen one until now.'

Yao looked at Ivan in interest, suddenly caught by the tender expression in Ivan's eyes. Entangled, stifled and trapped by it – but he did not fight it. He allowed himself to be guided, carefully and slowly lured into a sea of thoughts and emotions that had no place. Sympathy, perhaps, for the child who could only dream of sunflowers and never hope to touch one. But there was something else, too. Something that ached and hurt in only the most bittersweet of ways, an invisible snake coiling around Yao's chest and squeezing, crushing his breath. It slithered and curled around Yao's arm, down to his hand, and slowly forced it up. Extending, reaching for the cold man. Reaching until Yao felt the fabric of Ivan's coat beneath his fingers.

 _Melting_. Crystal snowflakes dissolving at Yao's touch. Ice breaking and crumbling apart. The sun was sweltering and beating down on Yao with July heat, but the air around Ivan was so cold. An icy phantom wrapped around him, a bitter ghost hanging on to him like a painful memory. Why was he so cold?

'Are you okay, _myshka_?'

Yao's eyes snapped up to Ivan's own, his grasp on Ivan's coat wavering. He nodded weakly, his grip loosening. 'I'm fine.' He forced a light chuckle, the invisible snake still coiled around him tenaciously. The suffocating feeling was here to stay, it seemed.

'Why…' Yao croaked out, his breath still a little uneven. 'Why do you even wear this? It's a little too hot for coats and scarfs, don't you think?'

Ivan chuckled. 'Yes, well… I like wearing them. My scarf, it's like a part of me. You can't just remove it.'

Yao raised an eyebrow at this, picking up the dangling end of Ivan's scarf. 'Why not?'

'Like I said, it's a part of me.' Ivan smiled and took the scarf end from Yao.

'Metaphorically speaking, you mean.'

Ivan only hummed at this, his expression light hearted and amused. There was, however, the ever so faint flicker of irritation. Or rather, an unwillingness to continue this conversation. Yao wanted to push a little further, but decided that it was best to leave it for now. He did not want to ruin a perfectly and relatively innocent day out.

Yao sighed. He drifted his gaze to the sunflowers, radiating despite the shadows cast over them. They seemed to reach for the sun, flaming petals curled towards the sky in this desperate yearning for warmth and light – in the same way that Yao's hand sought Ivan. Only the thing Yao was reaching for was anything but warm. Rather, he was reaching for something cold and distant, stung by the bitter winter.

_I shouldn't…_

His gaze travelled to Ivan, eyes met by a soft smile.

_I shouldn't want that smile._

Yao shouldn't want any of this. He shouldn't want this moment to last a little longer, for Ivan's smile to linger a bit more, for the sun to never dip below the horizon. Yao was trapped, chained by this man. He had been made a killer – a monster – by him. But even so, Yao could not find resentment nor disgust in his heart. There was only a reluctant fondness sprouting in his chest, carefully and wearily reaching out for the pale monster Yao's heart had come to treasure in the most peculiar of ways.

_I'm sick… It's the only way. There's something wrong with me._

'What are you thinking?' Ivan asked, a flicker of concern in his eyes. Perhaps he knew, although Yao did not like to think that his thoughts were so transparent.

'Nothing.' Yao replied curtly, averting his gaze back to the sunflowers. 'I'll be waiting in the car.' Yao turned and walked away without another word, afraid of where his mind would be taken next if he gazed anymore at the lilac hue of Ivan's eyes. Fear, crawling into his heart and burrowing a permanent home in it, eating away at him with every passing moment. Tearing away piece by piece until there was no space left, no space and no escape for Yao. Setting his chest ablaze with dread, although what Yao was dreading was something uncertain.

And as he opened the car door to sit inside, another worrying thought formed.

Yong Soo. He had seen Yao. He did not know where Yao was, granted, but he knew Yao was still around – still alive. This was not necessarily a problem – the scar faced man was dead and long gone, perhaps even forgotten. There was no evidence, no trace of Yao's involvement. There was no good reason to worry. And yet somehow, Yao could not rest easy. Everything suddenly felt fragile, delicate, like a house of cards wobbling unsteadily. It would only take a gentle touch, a breath of air, to send it all crumbling down.

It was with this unsettling feeling that Yao waited in the car, watching the store entrance for Ivan's pale face. He waited, and couldn't help but think just how fleeting every moment was. Just as sunflowers wilted, so did beasts draw their last breath. As the blood Yao and Ivan spill together dries, someone in the distance follows, closing in with every drop of red. And when the time came, they would chain them both, clip their wings and cage them.

This, Yao would not allow.


	9. Snake (Swallowing a Lily)

Ivan squirmed on the bed as the leather straps dug into his wrists and ankles. They hurt, bit into his shivering skin and would not let go. Ivan bit back a whimper, wondering what he had done wrong as he stared into the mottled ceiling. Surely there was something he had done– something that deserved this kind of punishment? Ivan wasn't a good child, he knew that. He wasn't pleasant and smiling like Katyusha. He wasn't obedient nor a fast-worker when it came to scrubbing the floors. But he wasn't a bad child either. He did not cry when they pierced his skin with a rusty needle. He did not flinch away when the bucket of ice cold water crashed down upon him. He stayed quiet at night, when others wailed and howled. Ivan tried so, so very hard.

He hoped Katyusha was okay, wherever she was. She was a good child, after all. Someone would certainly love and care for her. Only good children were loved, Ivan thought. That was why Ivan was here, and Katyusha elsewhere.

The bolt of the door rattled, Ivan's breath drawn in sharply. He waited in the dark, cold light spilling into the room as the door opened, a silhouette of two men standing at the doorway. Ivan's heart pumped loudly, dreading what tonight had in store for him. He desperately wished that it was only another rusty needle, a painful prick and a trickle of blood.

'How's this one for you?' One of the men asked. Ivan recognized his voice. It was one of the nurses, the one that hit and bruised if you did so much as look him in the eye. The other shadow man nodded, handing something over to the nurse. The nurse roughly undid the leather straps on Ivan's wrists and ankles, yanking him up from the bed and shoving him toward the shadow man.

'Bring him back here when you're done with him.'

A hand grasped Ivan's arm painfully, nails digging into his skin as he was dragged out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway. Ivan trembled, the sound of shrieks and screams echoing against the cracked walls. This wasn't a new sound to Ivan, it had become part of the night bird's song by now. Tonight, however, Ivan would be the one screaming. He knew this, and it made his empty stomach twist in terror.

The man pulled him into the shower room, throwing him against the tiled corner of a shower stall, Ivan's shallow breath knocked out of him violently. The room was barely lit, only a tiny barred window offering the light of a full moon, illuminating a rusted silver drain by Ivan's feet. Ivan felt a whimper in his throat and backed up into the corner, his fragile frame curling into a tiny shivering ball.

The man grabbed Ivan's hand, handcuffing it to the shower pipe. Ivan's eyes widened as he caught the gun holster hanging from the man's belt, the police badge on his chest. He looked up to man's face, finding it expressionless and cold. Ivan opened his mouth to speak, a broken plea escape his trembling lips.

' _Pozhaluysta, ne…_ ' Ivan choked out between held back sobs. ' _Ya budu khoroshim rebenkom. Obe_ -'

'Shut the fuck up.' The man's fist thrashed into Ivan's head. 'Don't make me cut your tongue out, you little shit.'

Ivan's throat closed up, whimpers buried in it as he shut his mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he would not make a sound. He would listen and be good, and perhaps then the man would be nicer to him.

The man pulled out a black stick, and lashed it across Ivan's legs. Ivan jolted, his skin burning and searing as if fire had struck across it. The man hit him again, pale skin turned deep red as flesh was torn, a sharp and screaming ache in Ivan's leg. Ivan wanted to shriek, to wail and cry but he bit his lip tightly so that he wouldn't. The man had told him to stay quiet, and this Ivan would do.

The stick came down on Ivan again, staining his arms, his back, and the rest of his battered leg with blemishes. Every muscle and bone ached and cried, broken and torn. Ivan was crumbling apart beneath the man's cruel gaze and the stick that mercilessly came down upon his frail body.

'Scream, you little shit!' The man growled, every ugly word punctuated by stabbing and brutal pain inflicted upon Ivan. 'It hurts, doesn't it? It hurts and I'll keep doing this until you scream like the little fuck that you are! Scream, you piece of shit!'

Blood was spattering onto the tiles, droplets sliding down the wall. Ivan caught his broken cries and sobs, holding them and letting them run as tears. He watched as his blood circled the drain, blackened by the moonlight. Not red. Not human. Black, like something rotten and poisoned to the core. It was his, this black fluid that filled the gaps between tiles, oozing out of his gashes and wounds. Blackened blood of a creature, a fractured monster.

Ivan really was a bad child. Only a bad child could bleed such ugly venom, such unnatural and tainted fluid, and it was with this thought that a choked cry finally broke through his quivering lips.

When the man gave up the stick, began to mar Ivan with his bare hands, defile the shivering pale skin beneath them, Ivan continued to cry. Tears flowed like rivers as he shrieked, his voice ringing in the empty shower room but reaching no one. His body was twisted, broken and toyed with, but noticed by no one. Under the cruel light of the moon, Ivan did not matter. Ivan was no more than a speck of dust beneath the cold and dark sky. Forgotten, forsaken by the warmth he dreamt of so desperately.

The pain was eventually overtaken by numbness, a vacant apathy settling into Ivan's heart as he sat in the pool of his own black, hideous blood. But it was too late by then. The man stood up, no longer entertained nor excited by the sight of Ivan's bruised skin. He buckled his belt and removed the stained handcuffs from Ivan, walking out and leaving Ivan's crumpled body on the ice cold tile. The man had his fun, now it was time for Ivan to pick up the pieces, clean himself up and get back to his room before the nurses saw him and beat him for it.

Ivan scrambled up to his feet, only for excruciating pain to rip through his body like lightning. He slipped and fell back to the floor, reopening clotted wounds and awakening dulled bruises. Biting his lip and holding back a cry of pain, Ivan hoisted himself up by grabbing onto the pipe behind him, bringing himself up to wobbly legs. The world flickered on and off like an old film reel, nausea making Ivan want to wretch. He swallowed back the bitterness in his throat and switched the shower on.

Ice cold water stung Ivan, inflamed the gashes and cuts on his body. Coppery water ran down the drain, wisps of blood swirling with it as Ivan scrubbed and scrubbed. Eventually the dark and blackened blood was washed off, but even so Ivan continued to douse himself in the icy water. Rubbing away at his skin, red and raw from his scratching nails. He was not clean enough. The blood was gone, the dirt washed away, but still he was tainted. His nightgown, stained pink by the remnants of his wounds. His skin, still being eaten away by the man's hands, crawling and stinging him.

Ivan shut the shower off, a dry sob forcing itself out of his throat. There were no tears left, no voice left to scream. He could only look at the moon beyond the bars, watching so cruelly from above, and feel his chest being hollowed out by the sight of it.

* * *

Yao took a step back to admire his handiwork, wiping away at his pocket knife with the dead woman's jacket. She was frail, sickly looking, having passed out before Yao's knife had even managed to flay the upper part of her arm. Nevertheless, Yao continued his work. Blood was still blood. Torn flesh was still a body unfolded in the most beautiful of ways to Yao.

'What do you think?' Yao glanced over at Ivan.

Ivan furrowed his brows as he studied the peeled back skin of the woman's arms and throat. 'Something's missing.' He knelt down to trace the exposed muscle with his gloved hand. Yao offered the knife to him. Ivan gently took it from his hands, drawing the knife pensively around the woman's face, tracing it down to her chest and resting it on her hip. Pressing the knife in, deep crimson rose out, forming a trail as the knife drew a curve across the woman's stomach. Ivan handed the knife back to Yao, proceeding to pry the opening with his hands. Handfuls of bowels and intestines were lifted out, the air thickly coated in their musty stench. The woman had been emptied and hollowed out, like pumpkin cleaned out for Halloween.

 _How festive…_ Yao thought, reminded of how fast time had gone by. It was October now, hot summer nights replaced by cold and foggy ones. The end of every passing day was marked by a body torn, dissolved and never to be seen again. Yao's knife moved effortlessly and fluidly across skin, a movement well-rehearsed. He no longer gagged at the sight of a cut throat, or of gouged out eyes. Killing had become a fascinating dance of a gleaming knife and the ribbons of red that followed it, although in recent days it had lost its morbid charm. Yao had become so used to it – too used to it. He felt his senses dull at the sight of a corpse, the same nerve struck again and again until the feeling had become numb. Something needed to change, something _exciting_ needed to happen.

The scent of honeysuckle lingered in the air, intermingling with the metallic smell of blood – a strangely pleasant amalgamation of senses. Yao's gaze caught the flame of a candle in the nearby kitchen, glimmering like a distant star. He approached it, the aroma intensifying. Entering the kitchen, his eyes were met with a multitude of candles on the counters, unlit and unused – save for the one flickering and fading. It was a shame that none of these candles would ever be used. A waste, really.

It was then that an idea formed, clicking in Yao's mind. Why should they go to waste? He might as well use them now, and not just in any ordinary way. No… he'd make them into something truly spectacular. Yao grabbed as many candles as he could carry, taking them over to the woman's corpse.

'Do you have a match on you?' Yao asked Ivan, sitting beside the woman as he carefully selected a candle, placing it snugly into the crevice of the woman's stomach. He could probably fit a few more…

The sound of a match striking against a matchbox ripped through the air. Ivan offered a lit match to Yao wordlessly. Yao took the match and lit each candle, before standing up to study the woman's illuminated body. Deciding that something more could be done, he hurried to the kitchen and picked out two small candles. He returned to the corpse, kneeling beside it and gouging out the eyes. He twisted the knife vigorously, making space for the flickering stars that would be put in their place.

When his work was done, the woman transformed into a honeysuckle-scented bed of dancing flames, he stood up and smiled to Ivan. 'Pretty, isn't it?'

An expression of surprise on Ivan's face quickly melted into a gentle smile. 'Yes, it is… but we'll have to clean it up soon, _da_?'

Yao shook his head. 'We can just leave it.'

Ivan's smile faltered. 'Leave it?'

'Yeah.' Yao picked up the woman's bloodied jacket and wiped his hands and knife. 'I mean, if we get rid of it… It'll be as if none of this ever happened.'

' _Myshka_ ,' Ivan chuckled. 'That's exactly why we get rid of the bodies. So we don't get caught.'

'All the police will have is a mangled body stuffed with candles.' Yao stepped over the candle lit woman to approach Ivan, using the jacket to wipe away splotches of blood off Ivan's face. 'No witnesses. No relation to the woman. No fingerprints. We're practically ghosts.' Yao removed Ivan's red stained gloves, throwing them over into the black bag by their feet.

'You touched the candles...' Ivan took hold of Yao's wrists.

'They'll melt away by morning.' Yao said softly, feeling his pulse beat beneath Ivan's cold hands. 'It'll be fine.' Yao felt his eyes being bored into, unfolded and examined by Ivan's amethyst gaze. It was too close, too intimate, the way Ivan held his hands. As if Yao were his alone. The invisible snake coiled around his chest and squeezed, squeezed until Yao could feel his breath lose its rhythm.

Ivan smiled weakly. ' _Ochi chernye_ …'He murmured, turning Yao's wrists up so that their delicate skin was exposed to the moonlight, streaming in through the curtains faintly. He traced his thumb over the light pink scar across Yao's left wrist. 'Remember when you thought I was going to eat you?'

'Y-Yeah…' Yao spoke unevenly, his chest failing to heave in and out normally, the snake curling around his throat now. 'You still considering it?'

Ivan chuckled deeply, the sound sending an odd chill down the back of Yao's neck. 'Is that your question for tonight?'

Yao nodded. Over the past few months, many questions had been asked. Some serious, others more light-hearted. He had asked about Ivan's childhood in Bragin, the games he used to play with Katyusha in the snow, what names he gave to every snowman and angel built. He asked about Glen Hills, the colours of the pills and medications they forced down Ivan's throat, what the screams of others sounded like during the night. But there were questions Yao was afraid to ask. Questions about the scars that Yao was sure were hidden beneath the heavy coat and scarf. Questions about Ivan's first kill, about why Ivan never liked to look at the moon in the same why that Yao did. These were the questions that Yao avoided, because there wasn't anything more frightening than a darkened look clouding over Ivan's eyes.

Ivan, perhaps understanding this, played along and answered Yao's 'safe' questions with a gentle smile. It was this same smile that crept up on Ivan's pale face as he pressed his lips to Yao's wrist. 'I never intended to eat you, _myshka_. But I might reconsider it…'

Yao swallowed, the snake choking him. Closing in on his throat, its icy scales gliding across his skin and whispering. Luring him as it prepared to sink its fangs into him.

 _Nothing has to happen._ Yao reassured himself. _Nothing has to-_

Ivan's lips parted against Yao's wrist, warm breath wrapping itself over Yao's skin as the snake gave one final squeeze, air sharply knocked out of his lungs. Yao flinched and yanked his hand away.

'S-Sorry.' Yao said, panic lacing his words as he tentatively looked to Ivan, although he wasn't quite sure why he was apologizing.

'No, _myshka_. Forgive me.' Ivan chuckled weakly. 'I got carried away...'

'Don't-' Yao struggled to regain the composure in his voice, passing nervousness off as irritation. This, was perhaps easier to deal with. 'Don't scare me like that.'

'I scared you?'

'Yeah, don't think too much of it.' Yao said curtly and busied himself with packing away their gloves, knifes and other bloodied belongings. Hearing an amused chuckle from Ivan, Yao felt a small breath of relief escape him. Nothing more than a passing moment. Full moon hysteria, perhaps. Surely that contributed in some way…?

As they left the house, candle lit corpse still arranged neatly in the living room, Yao couldn't help but feel doubt tug at him. Doubt about leaving a body behind - if it was after all, a bad idea. Doubt about flinching away from Ivan – if that too, was a bad idea. Uncertainty seemed to plague him, but Yao let it all evaporate into the cool night air. He gazed at the moon, and could only wonder what Ivan found so hideous about it.

* * *

Alfred laid out the photos across his desk, illuminated by the warm light of his desk lamp. Staring at them, he released a breath slowly. There wasn't much to work with. Sure, they had been lucky to have a body this time, but that was it. Weapons, fingerprints, traces of the killer's DNA – none. The only indicator that this was the same killer was the sighting of a pale man and a shorter male leaving the house. The descriptions varied, but that was to be expected with children as witnesses. Both Kiku and Alfred had established it was unlikely the killer knew these victims personally, but this only widened their search of potential suspects. If Alfred could somehow glean something from these photos – anything – he could go home and rest a little easier. Until then, he would stay right here at his desk.

A glance to the window beside him revealed that it was pitch black out, the lights of neighbouring buildings flickering off one by one. It was a little dark in here, too, his desk lamp remaining the only light source in the empty office, but Alfred found he often worked best like this.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, startling his slightly drowsy state of mind for a moment. He pulled his phone out and opened it to read a text message. It was from Kiku.

_'_ _Dear Alfred-'_

Alfred chuckled, Kiku's formality never failing to amuse him.

_'_ _I apologize in advance. I forgot to inform you about a specialist that I called upon for assistance on the case. He is a criminologist from abroad-'_

Alfred closed the phone, his smile wiped off by irritation. There was no need for 'specialists'. Kiku and Alfred were handling this case just fine. Sure, it was a tough one. They had no suspects, most of their witnesses were young children, and they only had one body out of the seventy victims that are by technicality, still missing.

But even so, Alfred and Kiku were making headway with this case… weren't they?

 _Who am I even kidding?_ Alfred dropped his head to the desk, yet another sigh escaping him. This time, followed by a yawn and an emerging headache. He rest his head like this for a moment, falling into the quietness of the office and willing his headache to fade away before it became unbearable. Drowsiness started to overtake him and lure him into taking a nap, until a clicking noise jolted him out of his resting position.

He snapped his head around the office, wondering if someone had left the main door open again. Alfred couldn't even begin to count the amount of times that had happened, startled by the breeze pulling the door closed in the middle of the night. The first couple of times it was almost embarrassing, pulling his gun out at a ghost of an imposter. By now, it was a persistent nuisance.

 _I should go and lock the door._ Alfred got up from his seat. Perhaps on the way he would get some coffee too, to ward off his drowsiness. A break was much needed.

He left his comfortably illuminated office and walked past the cubicles outside, dark and sparingly lit from the faint streetlight glow pouring in from the windows. Finding his way to the coffee machine, he fumbled with the buttons in the dark. He placed a paper cup onto the tray and waited as the machine whirred. For a moment, Alfred thought he could hear footsteps over the buzz of the machine. He glanced around uneasily.

When the coffee was done, Alfred waited just a little longer. He stood still and listened closely for those footsteps, but heard none. He took his coffee and walked back through the cubicles, slowly and a little warily. The sound of papers spilling on the floor and a muttered curse echoed through the office, followed by a sudden and sharp silence.

Alfred stopped, carefully setting his coffee on a nearby desk and pulling out his gun. It sounded as if the intruder was in one of the conference rooms, perhaps even Alfred or Kiku's office. He walked past the main entrance, locking the door as quietly as possible before moving on. With his gun raised, he approached the hallway of smaller offices and conference rooms, his back to the wall as he moved. He checked each and every room in the dim moonlight, save for his own office at the very end of the hallway. The light was still on in there, and Alfred caught the shadow of someone inside.

He pressed his back to the wall beside the doorway, listening for footsteps, breathing, the click of a gun. Nothing. He spun around into the room with his gun raised.

'Freeze!'

And it was then that Alfred saw the intruder, calmly sat at his desk. Composed, as if Alfred were the imposter instead.

'Oh, dear.' Was all the other man said, a British accent coating his words.

'Hands in the air!' Alfred took a step forward, gun unwavering in its aim at the blonde perched in his seat. His gaze flickered to black cane in the man's hands. 'And drop the cane!'

'Don't have to be so bloody rude about it…' The man set his cane down carefully so that it leant against Alfred's desk. He raised his gloved hands up and smiled weakly. 'Now shall we introduce ourselves?'

'Get up.' Alfred barked. 'Face the wall and put your hands behind your back.'

'But it's not what you think, really!'

'Get up.' Alfred seethed through his teeth.

The man huffed out in irritation and dropped his hands, sitting rather comfortably despite the gun that was pointed at his forehead. 'Look, I know it looks like I'm trespassing. But is it really trespassing if I have the keys? Not that I even had to use them in the first place…' His hands fumbled around the pocket of his black coat. Alfred cocked the gun, the man freezing in place.

'Alright, I didn't want to introduce myself this way, but…' The man sighed. 'My name is Dr. Arthur Kirkland.' He smiled wryly. 'How do you do?'

'Doctor?'

'Yes. PhD in Criminology.' Arthur shrugged lightly, as if the title didn't mean much. His smile, however, betrayed a smugness that was starting to aggravate Alfred. Regardless, Alfred lowered his gun.

'You're not the specialist Kiku called in, are you?'

'Ah, now you've finally caught up.' Arthur crossed his legs and leant back in the chair.

Alfred put his gun back into its holster, eyeing the mess of papers on the floor and then gazing at Arthur curiously. 'Why'd you break in?'

'I didn't _break in_.' Arthur folded his arms. 'The door was open. And even if it wasn't, I had a key. Detective Honda was kind enough to lend it to me.' His green eyes trailed over the photos on the desk, going quiet for a moment. 'I came to have a look at the case files…'

'At 1 a.m.?' Alfred knelt down to collect the papers on the floor, cursing the man for making such a mess and not bothering to clean it up. 'Couldn't you wait until morning?'

'Couldn't you?'

Alfred looked up to find Arthur's emerald tinted eyes staring at him. Studying him, almost. There was an even and calm disposition about Arthur's expression that unsettled Alfred. It felt as if the man had everything under control, even when plans went haywire. A kind of clumsy aloofness in his eyes. A wolf wearing sheep's clothes, was perhaps the best way to describe it.

'I have a job to do.' Alfred stood up, slapping the pile of papers back onto the desk.

'Yes, don't we all…' Arthur got up from the chair, taking his cane with him as he paced around the desk. 'I can tell you the profile I've compiled of the killer right now, if you wish.'

'You barely read the case file.' Alfred sat at the desk, eyes following the strange man as he theatrically walked around the room.

'I saw enough of it.'

'Tell me, then.' Alfred rubbed his forehead tiredly, wishing he'd brought his coffee with him.

'For starters, there's two of them.'

Alfred gave an irritated glare in the Englishman's direction. Arthur smiled.

'Like I said, for starters.' He spun the cane in his hands, knocking it into the desk with a bang. His mask of smug composure faltered, face reddening slightly as he muttered an apology. He cleared his throat and continued. 'That woman with the candles – it must have been quite pretty when the killers first arranged it. But it's rather sloppy. Improvised. I don't think they intended to leave the body, at least at first.'

'What changed their minds?'

'It's been, what… three, four months now? And you've compiled a list of seventy victims? It's not too far-fetched to fancy yourself bored of killing someone the same way for such a long time.' Arthur's gaze wandered onto Alfred's desk, a small and smug smile tugging at his lips. He lifted the cane and prodded the miniature American flag on the desk.

'Hm.' Arthur hummed, perhaps mockingly. 'That's cute.'

Arthur pulled the flag away. 'What kind of people are we looking for? Ex-convicts? Psychopaths?'

'Oh no, no.' Arthur shook his head, setting the cane back onto the ground. 'You won't find this special breed in your database. They're off the grid, invisible. At least, one of them is.'

Alfred gave a questioning look. 'Meaning?'

'Meaning something's changed in the last few months. One of your killers has been doing this for a while. I recall disappearances like this happening for at least three years now, correct? But it's only until recently that they've left crumbs for us to follow. I think our little beast has found himself a partner. It's this partner,' Arthur pointed to the photo of the mangled woman. '– this enthusiastic young pup who's trying so hard to impress us – that's going to be the duo's biggest liability.'

'Are you saying we're supposed to wait it out until he gives himself away?' Alfred said. 'Let the bodies pile up until we've got a DNA sample? That's not good enough.'

'Perhaps not.' Arthur said softly, eyes flickering between the photos on the desk. Snapping his head up to Alfred, he sighed. 'Well, I should be going now. I'll just… show myself out.' With this the Englishman strode out, straightening his jacket as he did so.

'Wh-Wait!' Alfred followed. 'That's it? That's your psychological profile?'

Arthur chuckled. 'Don't be silly. I've only just started. There's plenty more of that case file to read, and plenty more of those witnesses to talk to.' He stopped at the main entrance and glanced at Alfred. 'Mind you, I'm looking forward to the next body that turns up. I wonder if our boy will have improved…'

Alfred frowned and opened his mouth to say something, anything to protest such a cold and apathetic statement, only for the Englishman to disappear into the shadows beyond the door. He heard the gentle click of the cane against the stairs, footsteps descending softly in the darkness. Alfred could only stand there and rub his forehead, both in weariness and in frustration. He realised that the strange man had not even asked for his name.

_So much for being a British gentleman…_

But even so, the man seemed to catch on to something Alfred hadn't. His clear, green eyes caught onto everything in their line of sight, and Alfred couldn't help but feel that Arthur was going to be of use to this case, after all.


	10. The Torched Heart

Yao curled up beneath the sheets, shivering slightly as he waited for the bed to warm up a little. As November approached, so did the winter that Yao never thought he'd live to see. He looked forward to the end of those endless and humid days, but at the same time he couldn't help but feel a little weary. He wondered if the winter would somehow bring back bitter memories for Ivan, and if this would change him. If perhaps Ivan's smile would falter slightly at the sight of snow, and be replaced with that same expression Yao had seen on the frail little child in that old photograph, the one that he had discovered so many months ago.

The air around Yao started to warm a little, drowsiness seeping in as he closed his eyes. There was a comfort that enveloped him, one that Yao had not started feeling until recently. This crumbling, cold house was his home now. The dissolving remnants of bodies in the downstairs workshop no longer burdened his mind. The sight of Ivan's bloodied face no longer terrified him. This pillow, that was once soaked with tears of frustration and fear, only felt content sighs now. Comfort, was more than just a luxury by now.

'Yao.'

He turned in his bed, finding Ivan standing by the edge of the bed. It was dark in the room, and so Yao could not read Ivan's expression. He couldn't quite pinpoint the emotion in his voice, either.

'What is it?' Yao asked softly, noting that he couldn't smell any vodka in the air – as he usually did when Ivan made these visits in the middle of the night.

Without reply, Ivan crawled onto the bed. He lay on his side to face Yao, a gentle smile gracing his lips. Yao blinked, waiting for Ivan to say something. When nothing was said, Yao sighed and turned away from Ivan, closing his eyes. It wouldn't be the first time Ivan did this kind of thing, sneaking into Yao's bed like a child terrorised by a fresh nightmare. Yao did not particularly mind by this point. Ivan had never tried anything funny with him in situations like this, and Yao trusted this would be the case tonight as well.

He was about to drift off to sleep when a cold hand clamped onto his shoulder, yanking him so that he lay with his back on the mattress. He snapped his head to Ivan, a snarl in his voice as he hissed at him.

' _Aiyah_ … Ivan, wha-'

The words were caught in his throat when Ivan straddled him, pinning his shoulders down. Lilac eyes stared into Yao vacantly, a darker hue clouding over them. Yao gripped Ivan's elbows and attempted to throw him over, anger boiling over in his veins. Ivan, however, did not move an inch.

'Get off.' Yao growled.

' _Ochi chernye_ …' Ivan spoke softly, tenderness in his voice although his expression had remained distant. 'It pains me that I must do this.'

'Do what?!' Yao struggled beneath his weight, his breath becoming ragged as panic rose in his chest. 'Ivan, get off _now_. Don't make me hurt you.' Yao hissed, although he knew the only one who could get hurt was him, not Ivan.

One of Ivan's hands lifted off Yao's shoulders, though this did little to aid Yao's struggles to topple Ivan over. Ivan reached for the space underneath the sheets where he had being lying only moments ago. He pulled out a large knife, gleaming in the dim light that spilled in from the hallway. Yao felt his breath lose itself for a moment, the acidic taste of fear in his mouth as realisation poured in.

'Wh- What are you doing with that?' Yao's words stumbled over themselves, uneven and broken sounding as the tip of the knife approached the side of his neck. 'Ivan, no… Don't.' Yao's chest heaved up and down heavily, blood rushing and pumping loudly in his ears. The invisible snake was already holding him in an unbreakable grip, fangs poised at his jugular. 'D-Don't do this.'

'It's for both of us, _myshka_.' Ivan hummed, his voice lilted sweetly as he leant down, brushing away the sleeve of Yao's oversized shirt so that his shoulder was exposed. The knife traced over Yao's neck, his pulse beating against it. The cold trail dragged down to his shoulder and stopped, pressure building and weighing heavily on Yao's skin. Yao took hold of Ivan's hand, pushing the knife away.

'I won't let you.' Yao seethed, although a cry of fear lurked beneath the surface of his voice. He was afraid, terrified, but not of death. He feared the pain of that knife carving into him, of Ivan's betrayal lacing every sting and stab. He feared being swallowed up by the snake that had been plaguing him for so long, of being devoured and spat back out by it.

_I don't want this._

But despite the strength he put into his arm, the force his trembling hand was exerting against Ivan's, the knife had won. Skin was pierced, the snake's fangs stung him, and a trickle of blood rose out of Yao's skin. It was this droplet, this little bead of crimson red, which caught Yao's eyes. He watched it fall onto the mattress, hypnotised by the trail it left behind. Poisoned and paralyzed, Yao felt the venom burn in his veins.

'Beautiful, isn't it, _myshka_?'Ivan took hold of Yao's chin with an ice cold hand, amethyst gaze drawing Yao in. 'You want to see more, don't you?'

Yao did want to see more. He really did, in the most strangest and twisted of ways. The poison had tainted his blood already, the blood had already been spilt. What difference would one more drop do? Why not make that crimson bead into a beautiful ribbon? Into a thousand ribbons! A bouquet of torn flesh and blood, of blooming red roses and spider lilies!

 _Make me into something beautiful…_ The words sought to leave Yao's lips, but he could only lose himself in the sight of Ivan's lilac eyes and nod weakly.

The knife pressed into Yao's shoulder, drawing a line and setting skin ablaze with its trail. More red ribbons, more spectacular beads trickling down onto the white mattress. Yao trembled and withheld a cry of agony as the knife continued on down the length of his arm, sparks of searing pain bursting alongside it. The pain was unbearable, tortuous and slow, only alleviated by Ivan's cold hands sweeping over his torn flesh. Yao was being broken, taken apart, only to be mended back together by Ivan's touch.

Ivan's bloodstained hand travelled up to Yao's chest, resting above his madly beating heart. A soft smile crept up on Ivan's pale face. 'I wonder why your heart beats so fast.'

Yao smiled back weakly, willing himself not to pass out as his vision began to flicker and fade. He took hold of Ivan's knife-wielding hand and guided it to his chest. 'Open up and see.'

The knife plunged into his ribcage, tearing his chest open and pulling flesh apart. Yao shrieked, the world darkening and falling away from him, but he held on. He had to see, he had to feel it when it happened. Ivan's hand reached into his chest, his cold touch stinging against the blazing fire that had bloomed in Yao's heart. Icy fingers grasped the throbbing and beating heart, ripping it out from Yao.

It was burning, burning and lit aflame in Ivan's hands. Yao watched the crimson rose breathe in those pale and wintry hands, like a flame flickering in the breeze. He could still feel it as if it were still in his own bleeding body, still pumping wildly in his torn chest. Yao watched as Ivan devoured his burning heart, fangs sinking into the twitching flesh and tearing away. Tearing away until Yao's heart was gone, until the flame was entirely swallowed up by the beast. Until –

' _Myshka_?'

Yao snapped his eyes open, swallowing up the air in raw panic as images of bloody carnage seared through his mind, haunting him as he struggled to reassure himself that it had only been a nightmare.

 _That wasn't real. That wasn't real._ The words rang in his head feverishly. But even so, he felt his hand around his chest frantically, searching desperately for that pulse. His hand rested and felt rapid throbbing beneath his heaving chest, relief sweeping over his hysteric mind. It was only then that his breath became a little more composed, evening out slightly in the darkness of his room.

' _Myshka_.'

Yao jolted out of his position, sitting up in his bed as he realised Ivan was lying next to him. The panic returned, perhaps irrationally, as he heard Ivan chuckle. The hallway light spilt in through the doorway to partially illuminate Ivan's pale face, his smile weakened by the concern in his lilac eyes.

'Were you having a nightmare?' Ivan asked.

'N-No.' Yao choked out, throat closing in on itself as memories of the knife burying into his chest resurfaced. Regardless, he forced himself to continue, struggling to keep his voice steady. 'Why are you here? Don't you have your own room?'

Ivan's brows furrowed. 'I heard you crying. But there wasn't much I could do, _da_?' The smile returned to his lips. 'I get nightmares too, sometimes – '

'Get out.' Yao felt himself being suffocated by the air, stifled by a feeling he couldn't name. It ached in his chest and made a lump in his throat. Yao wanted to call it fear, an unbearable kind of terror only caused by a nightmare so bloody and vivid. But he also knew it to be something else, something that burned in his heart, waiting to be remedied – but by what, he did not want to know. He wanted nothing to do with these emotions, unwilling to sort through them and put them into neat little boxes. They were to remain nameless, unrecognized. This was how Yao intended to cope with them.

Ivan left the room without a word, an expression of hurt flickering in his eyes. Yao felt guilt stab at him, but it paled in comparison to the images that continued to burn in his mind. He waited for Ivan's shadow to disappear into the hallway, before flopping back onto the bed with a heavy exhale of air.

He didn't fight the images, did not fight as the burning flame lit up his chest again. He surrendered to them and hoped this fiery serpent that was coiled around him would leave him alone. But he was already stung, already poisoned. The pyre in his heart would not die out soon. This, Yao knew.

* * *

'Ignorance is bliss…'

Alfred glanced over at Arthur. 'What was that?'

A soft smile swept across Arthur's lips, his eyes fixed on the dead man before them. The man was seated at a polished dining table, hands laid up so that their palms faced the ceiling. In each hand, a red lump. The most noticeable thing, however, was the man's head, the top cleanly sliced off. Where his brain used to be, red roses and lilies overflowed, their petals crumbling and withered. His eyes were empty, black sockets. The corners of his lips were torn, split so that a bloody grin was stretched across the man's face.

'Ignorance is bliss.' Arthur said as he approached the seated man. 'Isn't that what you think of when you look at him?' His gloved hand reached for the red lump in the dead man's hand, despite Kiku's quiet objections. Arthur held the lump up and chuckled. 'And he's holding his own eyes! Oh, our boy really has stepped up his game...' Arthur hummed and placed the lump back into the open palm, turning towards Alfred's dumbfounded expression.

'Game?' Alfred scoffed, arms crossed over – perhaps to conceal his balled up fists. 'Are you even taking this seriously?'

'I am taking this very seriously, James.'

'It's Jones.' Alfred pulled away the mask from his mouth, despite the putrid stench.

'Yes, well, whatever...' Arthur shot back absent-mindedly, his gaze returning once again to the dead man, curiously peering at every blood stain, every petal, the angles at which the man's fingers were curled. A small gasp of excitement left Arthur's lips, pulling out a pair of tweezers from his coat pocket. He plucked something from the table. 'Detective Honda? A bag, please.'

'Yes.' Kiku hurried over to Arthur, opening up a clear plastic bag.

'Did you think we'd be this lucky, James?' Arthur let the strand of hair fall into the bag. 'Seventy-two victims and we already have a hair sample.' He looked up at Alfred and smiled words laced with dry amusement. 'I'd say we're making progress.'

'That hair sample means nothing if we have no suspects.'

'Very true, indeed…' Arthur mumbled, although Alfred couldn't help but feel ticked off by the mocking tone in his voice that wasn't _quite_ there. But Alfred could hear it, could see it in that annoying man's smirk as he said it.

A knock on the open door startled Alfred, sending his head snapping towards it. The sight he was met with, however, was not a welcome one.

'Morning, Linda.' Alfred forced a smile at the blonde, her shoulder leaning against the doorway. 'I'm, ah, sorry to tell you but… We're in the middle of an investigation here. So… whatever the problem is, I can't hear about it now.'

'I didn't come here for you.' Linda spat back, an inkling of a sharp accent grating in her voice. She stepped into the living room and made a hurried walk for the stairs.

'Wait, Ms. Sterling!' Kiku followed after her. 'Please do not touch anything…' His worried voice trailed as he hopped up the stairs in pursuit of the blonde.

'Who's that?' Arthur asked, his green eyes wandering curiously up the stairs.

'Social Services.' Alfred exhaled. 'Also the woman that hates my guts, for whatever reason.'

'Hm.' Arthur hummed, perhaps in approval. 'And her name's Sterling…'

'Is that supposed to mean something?'

'No, not really…' Arthur's expression drew into a pensive one, betraying interest when his words suggested otherwise. He blinked and snapped his head back to the corpse. 'Well. On with the rest of this bloody mess. Do we have a name for him?'

'Neil Bowman. Former psychiatrist.' Alfred flicked through the file Kiku had left with uncharacteristic carelessness on the table. 'Retired after the shutdown of Glen Hills Asylum. Lived with his adopted son. Wife died two years ago.'

'Glen Hills, you said?' Arthur glanced up at Alfred.

'Yeah.' Alfred threw the file back onto the table. 'Something special about it?'

'Dr. Rothaugen was a Glen Hills doctor. Fred Lombard and Moira Langerhan were nurses there. I haven't read the case files on the other sixty nine victims but I'd say that still makes Glen Hills pretty special, don't you think?' Arthur peeled off the plastic gloves and threw them into the 'biohazard' waste bin, part of Kiku's meticulous crime scene investigation procedure. He picked up his cane, which he had left leaning by the doorway, and began to spin it around in a way that was starting to irritate Alfred.

'You think the killers are ex-patients?' Alfred crossed his arms again, hoping that cane didn't knock something over.

'Correction. I _know_ they're ex-patients.' Arthur paced around the dining room table. 'Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say at least one of them is. The young pup that's responsible for putting this ensemble together,' He stopped his cane short to point at the corpse, the tip dangerously close. 'He's having a little too much fun for a disgruntled ex-patient. No, I think he's trying to say something.' The cane came down onto the wooden floor, Arthur approaching the dead man with slow and deliberate steps. 'But I don't think he himself knows it…'

'He?' Alfred raised an eyebrow.

'Oh, yes.' Arthur turned to Alfred. 'Statistically speaking, of course, it's almost a given. Besides, don't your witnesses all describe two men?'

'Some of them say a man and a woman.'

'Ah…' Arthur turned back to corpse, reaching out to touch the wilted flowers. 'I suppose only a woman would put so much thought into such presentation. Red roses and lilies… I wonder…'

'So now it's a woman?' Alfred pulled Arthur's hand away.

'I'm only entertaining the thought, James.' Arthur pried his hand away and shoved it into his coat pocket. 'Give a man some room for imagination, will you?'

'It's Jones.'

Arthur smiled in that sly and lopsided way that Alfred was starting to become familiar with. 'I know that.' Alfred felt green eyes examine him, perhaps watching and waiting for every micro expression to bear itself on his face. It was an uncomfortable feeling, as if the man knew better and was flaunting it, dissecting Alfred's mind right in front of him.

'Then don't-'

'Ms. Sterling, I'm afraid you can't take that with you! Please understand!'

Alfred and Arthur turned towards the stairway, Linda striding away from it with a weathered teddy bear in her hands. Kiku followed behind, eyebrows upturned in concern.

'Ms. Sterling!' Kiku called out, but the blonde had already left the home and shut the front door behind her with a bang.

'You okay there, man?' Alfred laughed weakly, forgetting the strange Englishman for a moment. 'At least I'm not the only one she hates.'

'She took something from the crime scene…' Kiku returned to the living room, worry knitting his brows together. 'I explained to her in a calm manner and yet she would not listen.'

'Why the teddy bear, though?' Arthur asked.

'She said it was for Mr. Bowman's son.' Kiku sighed. 'I could not stop her in time…'

'It's just a teddy bear, Kiku.' Alfred slapped Kiku's shoulder reassuringly. 'Don't worry about it. Besides, we got a lead, I think. Glen Hills.'

Kiku's eyes brightened in interest. 'Glen Hills?'

Alfred nodded, allowing Arthur to go into details, ideas punctuated by theatrical pauses and cane gestures. The man was a nuisance, egocentric and patronising, to say the least. But even so, Alfred was relieved to have some lead to follow, and so he did not dwell much on this. At long last, the case was going somewhere. All he needed was a name, a face, for this two headed beast. And when the time came, when the mask had been pulled away, Alfred would not hesitate to take this beast by the horns.

* * *

Yao's bare feet padded across the rough wooden floor, eyes sleepily searching, looking for the trail of that familiar scarf, of Ivan's towering frame. The house was dark inside, but through the boarded up windows, the faint purple hue of dawn peeked in. Yao rubbed his arms as he fumbled through the darkness, a chilly breeze snaking into the downstairs hallway and teasing him. Following the source of that breeze, he came across the back door, wide open and leading out onto the porch.

It was from the doorway that he spotted Ivan sitting on the back porch steps, silently staring into what used to be a garden. The earth was dry and cracked, perhaps from that particularly hot July, dotted with patches of grass and stinging nettles. Beyond the wired garden fence, tall and open grass fields swayed in the gentle wind. It was only within the boundaries of this house that everything seemed to crumble and dry out, strangling whatever life it contained. It was a dull and hollow view, and Yao had to wonder how long Ivan had been looking at it.

His feet creaked against the wooden floor as he approached Ivan, Yao's thoughts still drowsy from sleep, but awake enough to know that leaving things as they were since last night would be a mistake.

Ivan turned his head and smiled weakly. ' _Dobroe utro, myshka_.'

Yao nodded and sat next to Ivan, folding his arms over his legs and looking out into the barren garden. He glanced toward Ivan, stealing glimpses of what expression he wore, if that smile had been forced, if his eyes were clouded over with reminiscence. But all Yao could catch was the blue fabric of Ivan's sweater, and the white scarf that he wore so dearly.

'I'm not upset...' Ivan spoke up, lilac eyes seizing Yao's mid-glance. 'I'll admit… I'm not used to being around people like you.' Ivan returned his gaze to the dawning horizon. 'People like Katyusha… kind people.'

'I'm not kind.' Yao murmured, tearing his eyes away from Ivan to lose himself in every bend and sway of the grass blades that seemed so far away from them. Beyond the fence, it was a relaxing sight to look at. Tranquil, like the painting of a beautiful and unreachable place.

Ivan smiled, a gentle curve gracing his lips. 'Maybe not in the conventional sense…' A hand softly pet Yao's shoulder. 'But you look out for me. Don't you, _myshka?'_

A gust of cold air swept through the field, lashing out and piercing Yao's exposed arms. He shivered and held his legs closer to his chest, but he did not mind. He sat there and watched the purple hue of the silent sky melt into one of soft amber, a sliver of the sun rising slowly over the horizon. Yao had always been one for sunsets instead, for watching the sky blanket itself with shimmering stars and a glowing moon. But it was in this moment that Yao forgot the serenity of a dark sky, wondering why he had never watched the sun rise like this before. The moon was beautiful, yes… but Yao had forgotten how breath-taking the sun could be, too.

As the wind howled a little more strongly, the trail of Ivan's scarf whipped in the air, dancing along the breeze and unravelling slightly. Yao caught the end of it, marvelling at its softness for a short-lived moment, before turning towards Ivan. Ivan's eyes were faintly widened, holding onto the rest of his scarf in his attempt to salvage its form around his neck. Yao smiled reassuringly and looped the one end of the scarf around Ivan's neck once, twice, trying to emulate the way in which Ivan always wore it. He only caught glimpses of the pale skin beneath the scarf, Ivan's gloved hands covering a large portion of it, almost as if to hide his neck in shame.

'It's okay, _myshka_. I'll fix it from here.' Ivan said softly as he adjusted the scarf, tightly fixing it around his neck. His eyes were preoccupied in doing this, but his expression betrayed a quiet kind of panic - of embarrassment, almost. When Ivan set his hands back down in his lap, Yao spotted a patch of skin left uncovered on his neck, ghostly pale skin exposed to the cold air. But what caught his eye was a blemish peeking out from beneath the scarf, red and slightly swollen, not too dissimilar to the scar Yao had from spilling acid on his arm.

'What happened there?' Yao's hand reached out, delicately pulling away the scarf to reveal more reddened skin. Ivan immediately flinched, his hand reaching to his neck protectively and tugging the scarf up. Yao pulled his hand away, brows furrowing in concern at Ivan's response.

'Nothing. Just a birthmark.' Ivan spoke softly, gaze flickering the way it had so many months ago, when he had refused to tell Yao about his first kill. Ivan _still_ hasn't told Yao about his first kill, and it seemed he was just as unwilling to open up about the obvious scar on his neck, too. Seeing through this lie within the blink of an eye, Yao swallowed his apprehensiveness and asked.

'Did you get burnt in a fire? The orphanage fire?'

Ivan's eyes held Yao's own, even and expressionless. 'No.'

'What then?'

'It's not a pretty story _._ '

'It's a story I want to hear.' Yao said, the conversation all too reminiscent of that July afternoon so long ago, when his questions met resistance. But the circumstances had changed since then. 'It's my question for last night. For the man with the flowers in his head.' Yao felt a small smile spread across his lips, remembering the moment when he had the idea of replacing the man's brains with red roses and lilies.

Ivan said nothing, and Yao felt disappointment sink into his stomach. Despite the effort he put into arranging the dead man – he even managed to keep him sitting up at the table! – Ivan never seemed to quite enjoy the sight in the same way that Yao did. But Yao wanted Ivan to smile at his latest work, to praise him or just to say _something_ about it. It seems Yao would have to work harder to impress him, although in what way he wasn't sure.

Perhaps feeling desperate to get the answer to his question, Yao spoke again. 'I'll tell you about my nightmare if you tell me about that scar.' Shortly after saying this, nervous regret twisted in his stomach. Did he really want to tell Ivan about his nightmare? Could he, even if he tried? Yao was not even given a chance to consider this, Ivan replying back softly.

'You don't have to tell me _.'_ Ivan said, a small breath exhaling slowly as he spoke. 'Let us both keep our nightmares to ourselves. At least for today.'

Yao watched as Ivan turned back to the barren garden, his brows furrowed slightly. Ivan's hand was still resting on his scarf, fiddling with it nervously. Yao's hand itched in a strange way, wanting to reach out for that pensive expression, for the cold hand that Yao sought to melt. He inhaled deeply to ease the feeling, comforted just a little by the absence of the invisible snake that always seemed to plague him. It had already bitten him, seeped its venom into his blood, so what more could it do? His heart, however, still seemed to panic and struggle against it. It would take time, Yao supposed, until that too faded away.

Turning his gaze to the dry dirt beyond his and Ivan's feet, Yao wondered if this house had ever seen normality of some kind. What game did children play in this garden, before the paint on the walls started to peel? What kind of laughter echoed in the hallways, before they became empty? Ivan had been living in a graveyard of a home for so long, never once taking the time to really make it his – perhaps because he didn't know how. Yao's eyes trailed around the garden, taking in its neglected state, before opening his mouth to speak.

'We should plant sunflowers here.' Yao said softly, the words leaving his mouth as he thought them, unprocessed and raw.

Ivan turned to Yao, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. 'Hm?'

'In the spring,' Yao did not turn to face him, letting his words spill as he kept his gaze on the horizon. For some odd reason, it made him uncomfortable to look at Ivan and say this, as if it were uncalled for or perhaps too strange of a thing to say. 'We should plant sunflowers here. It would look nice…'

A pause, perhaps a breath from Ivan. ' _Da_ , it would. I'd like that, _myshka_.'

Yao did not have to turn to hear the smile in Ivan's voice, of the brightness that he wished he could hear more of. As rays of sunlight peeked through the fence, the amber of the sky fading into blue, Yao felt his chest swell oddly. Content, perhaps. Happy, even, to hear Ivan's voice lighten a little.

His mind raced with possibilities for the spring, far away as it was, and thought of what other plants should accompany the sunflowers, how he would arrange them in the garden. It would be lovely, charmingly delicate in the way that man's face was when the top of his head was sliced off, when Yao gently placed the thorny roses and fragrant lilies into the cavity he had created.

Just like all of his other creations, it would be for Ivan, and it would be beautiful.


	11. Silver Thorns

Yao slid his hand across the wet hood of the car, delighted by the feel of rain droplets on his fingers as he stepped onto the pavement. The night air was damp with the smell of rain, its scent fresh and clean as Yao inhaled it. He hopped to the front gate, dodging puddles on the way, and waited for Ivan.

'You're in a hurry, _myshka_.' Ivan locked the car and leisurely made his way to the gate, black bag slung over his shoulder.

Yao only smiled at this, wanting to tell Ivan what he had in mind for today, but deciding that it was best as a surprise anyway. Today, surely today, Yao would create a sight that Ivan would marvel at.

The two opened the gate and walked up the steps of the brick house, quiet as the rest of the neighbourhood was. Ivan knelt down and worked the keyhole with a pin, the door creaking open within minutes. The house was pitch black inside, faint sounds of footsteps echoing in the upstairs rooms as Yao and Ivan entered. Ivan gently shut the door behind him and they waited.

Light spilled down the stairs from the upstairs hallway, the silhouette of a man wearily walking down the steps. Unarmed and drowsy - it was almost too easy. Ivan knocked his head into the wall, the man passing out and falling limply onto the floor. Almost automatically, Yao knelt down and began to tie the man up. Ivan continued up the stairs, his footsteps heavy and slow. There was no need to rush.

Yao dragged the man into the living room space. He pulled the curtains back and hoped the moonlight was strong enough tonight. Looking out through the large window, a waning moon glowed back at him. Not full, as he would have liked, but bright enough.

Yao rummaged through Ivan's black bag, left by the door, and fished out duct tape. It was one of his suggestions to Ivan. So much easier to use than old rags, which could be spat back out or bloodied. It could be used to hold things in place, something that may come in handy at one point or another, Yao supposed. He tore off a piece of the tape and placed it across the man's mouth. Deciding that having the man's hands tied behind his back was rather troublesome for what Yao had in mind, he fumbled in the dark to reach what he presumed was the kitchen. He grabbed a chair and dragged it into the living room. He untied the man's hands and propped him up onto the chair, wrapping duct tape generously around him so that he was stuck fast to the chair. The man's arms were held down, feet tied down, but wrists free. This, Yao would need.

'Are the children locked up?' Yao called out, hearing Ivan's footsteps behind him

' _Da_. The wife, too.' Ivan spoke, taking a seat on the couch. 'Do you want to ask your question now? _'_

Yao pushed the chair up against the window, not wanting the man to knock himself over in a panic. He peeked outside to check. A garden view, lined by large trees for privacy. Which was good, because privacy was most definitely needed. Yao turned to Ivan.

'Yeah…' Yao considered for a moment before asking, something preferably light. He didn't want to upset Ivan tonight. '…Have you ever had pets?'

Ivan smiled gently, acknowledging that Yao had once again, avoided the tough questions. 'Not really. Unless you count imaginary cats.'

'Imaginary cats?' Yao felt a small smile creep up on his lips.

Ivan nodded. 'In Bragin, Katyusha and I used to pretend we had a whole family of animals. We had cats and dogs. Sheep, even. To Katyusha it was always a game. She knew it was all in our heads. But for me… it was different. I used to actually believe it. I really thought I had an invisible cat called… called…' Ivan faltered slightly, his gaze flickering slightly in the dim light of the moon.

'Called what?'

A pause. Silence, before it was broken by Ivan's nervous laughter. When the chuckle died out, a soft smile was left on Ivan's lips. ' _Myshka_. I called her _myshka_ because she was like a mouse. Always scared and running away.'

'Is that what you think of me?' Yao chuckled, face warming up as he asked this. The man in the chair was starting to moan as he slipped out of unconsciousness, but Yao paid no attention, eyes stuck on Ivan and his ghostly pale face in the moonlight.

'At first.' Ivan leant back into the couch. 'Your eyes were so wide, so cautious of everything.' His smile widened slightly, almost drowsily. 'You were scared of me.'

Yao wanted to protest, perhaps for the sake of his pride, but instead he only found the next question leaving his lips. 'And now?' He asked, despite the burning feeling in his chest, on his face. He hoped that in the dimly lit room, Ivan would not be able to see this.

'Now… you're different.' Ivan's head lolled to the side sleepily. 'But you're still afraid of something, I think. I'm not sure what though…'

The man in the chair was now yelling beneath the tape, writhing and shifting in the chair. Yao whipped around and felt a small sigh escape him. He wanted to get started with today's creation, but he so badly wanted to hear more of Ivan's voice, to hear him reminiscence of those July days like they were treasured memories. It was a moment Yao wanted more of, to sink into. But there was work to be done.

He set the duct tape on the coffee table, pulling out a tiny box from his pocket. He had brought it with him just for today, and looked forward to using it all afternoon. He took off the lid, revealing shimmering needles in the container. Shimmering and beautiful… but not as beautiful as they would be when stung into flesh. Yao delicately picked a needle up, holding it up to the moonlight whilst he considered. What would have to bleed first? Where shall the first thorn twist and grow?

 _Best to go from the feet up._ Yao thought, kneeling down on the floor. The man shook and struggled in the chair, not being able to quite see what was happening until he felt it. Yao pressed the needle into right into the foot's tendon, pushing it in slowly. The man shrieked, feet shaking and writhing as the needle pushed his foot. A bit of an overreaction, Yao thought, but it was to be expected. The first draw of blood was always the hardest. After this…

_Who am I kidding?_

It would only get more painful from here. The man was wasting his breath, but it didn't matter. Blood mattered. Flesh, in its torn form, mattered. Screams were merely the added aesthetic. Music, for Yao to work to.

He picked up another needle and pressed it into the man's other foot, into the tendon again. More screams, more muffled pleas, but the work had to be done. A needle into the calf, up the length of the soft meat that hung from the bones of his legs, lined by silver thorns and pricks. Crimson, oozing out from every needle and making little dots of red across the man's legs. Moans and sobs of agony. When the legs and feet had been covered, Yao stood up on his knees, propping his elbows onto the man's lap as he began to work onto the arms.

He worked his way down the arms, saving wrists for last. He did not want him bleeding out too soon, after all. The box of needles was starting to empty, Yao using them more prudently in an effort to leave enough for the neck and eyes. He stung the length of the man's arms with the silver needles, watching a little rose bloom with every prick. Bursting and expanding into their form, petals of searing pain scattering themselves on the man's trembling flesh.

_(It hurts so much, doesn't it?)_

Yao wondered if the man really understood, if it was really the pain that Yao intended for him to feel. It was a pain that was not meant for words, nor pictures. It was a pain only to be _felt_ , and Yao wanted this man to experience it. In a strange way, Yao wanted to feel it himself, so he could know that it was the same. That the pain really existed in this world, and not just in his nightmares.

Grabbing the man's hand, he stabbed a needle beneath the nail of his index finger. Shrieks rang out loudly, hand writhing and trembling madly. Yao smiled slightly.

_That's better._

Yao did the same with the rest of his fingers, twisting the needles into every nailbed, sometimes a little more slowly, to draw a little extra blood, a little more of those charming shrieks. When Yao had run out of fingers to stab, he stung the skin of the man's wrists with needles. He toyed with different angles, placing some needles so they stuck straight out, others diagonally so that they seemed to grow out of the skin. He stood up and stepped back to admire his handiwork, pleased when he saw that the needles glimmered on the bloodied flesh like brilliant thorns.

Taking the last of the needles, he hovered them above the man's face, indecisive of how he wanted them exactly. He picked out one needle, jamming into the man's neck. A couple more, to complete the look. Fat crimson droplets trickled down as the man cried, and with one final needle, a spurt of blood burst. It sprayed and splattered hot blood everywhere, coating the window, Yao's hand as he shielded his eyes. Yao pulled the needle out and pressed his hand to the pinprick of a wound that had caused such a mess. He put pressure on it and cursed himself for not being careful enough. The man would surely bleed out and die soon – too soon. And Yao had not even gotten to use his knife yet.

'Need help there, _myshka?'_ Ivan's voice rang out sweetly, amusement lacing his words.

'No, I'm fine.' Yao growled, frustrated with how the man's head was starting to limp now, eyelids fluttering closed. Anger boiling up at him, he stabbed the man's eye with the needle, desperate for those final shrieks of unbearable pain. He picked up another needle and aimed for other eye, but the man squeezed it shut. Yao pried the eyelid open, pressing the needle into the whites of his eye slowly. Broken and strained screams, loud even through the duct tape. Blood, almost black in the moonlight, streaming down the man's face. Pulse, ebbing away beneath Yao's grip.

A blanket of silence fell, the man motionless in the chair. Yao stumbled back and exhaled sharply, perhaps recovery from his outburst. He was usually calm, collected when doing this kind of thing. For a moment, however, it had been like that hot July night, when Yao felt his hate surge through a knife and into the scar faced man's throat. He stood there and composed himself, catching his breath until it evened out.

'You okay there?'

'Yeah.' Yao panted. 'I'm fine.' He pulled the knife out of his pocket and approached the dead man. There was still work to be done. 'Just a little more and I'll be finished.'

He brought the knife up to the man's face, flicking the knife this way and that. He drew it beneath the skin carefully, not tearing it away completely. Nothing was to be removed, only transformed. He let loose pieces of flesh dangle, poised like lovely layers of flower petals. He did this until the man's whole face was nothing but a dark, bloodied flower. But even so, it was not enough. Yao needed more, more of that blank canvas.

He knelt down to the man's calves, removing the needles from them and tearing away a slice of flesh. He cut it so that it was thin, as fine as it could get, and pinned it around the man's face, cradling it with leafy and bloody skin. At long last, the man had truly bloomed into a beautiful rose. Not quite red, as Yao might have wanted it to be, but such a deep crimson red that it was black in the moonlight. Even so, it was breath-taking.

'Let me see.' A hand gripped Yao's shoulder. Yao stepped to the side, watching Ivan's expression as he looked at the transformed man in the chair. Yao's eyes were fixed onto Ivan's, waiting for a spark, for the lilac irises to brighten in excitement. Yao wanted to see some kind of recognition of the rose that had bloomed before him.

'Yao _…_ ' Ivan murmured, his face paler than it had already been. His eyes were distant, unreadable.

'You like it?' Yao asked, taking a step closer to see Ivan's face better, curiosity burning in him.

Ivan stumbled to the corner of the room, away from the window. Yao heard coughing, retching, and hurried to Ivan.

'Ivan! What – Are you okay?' Yao's hand reached instinctively for Ivan, resting it on his back as Ivan vomited. Yao felt concern sprout uneasily in his chest, causing a strange ache as his mind raced through possibilities. Was Ivan sick? Poisoned? Surely he couldn't be sickened by the sight of the bloodied man. The blood wasn't even all that visible in this dark room. It looked black, dark like the depths of a lake at night.

'I'm…' Ivan heaved, panting as his hands were shakily pressed onto his knees. 'I'm fine… _mysh-'_ Ivan dry heaved, no longer expelling anything onto the floor. Yao said nothing, his hand rubbing Ivan's back hesitantly and hoping this was nothing more than a fever.

'Please…' Ivan croaked out, still hunched over. 'Don't touch me.'

Yao lifted his hand gently. 'S-Sorry. I'll… I'll get something to clean up.' He hurried out of the room, stumbling into the hallway and looking for a bathroom. He felt around for a light switch and turned it on, spotting a small bathroom and grabbing a couple of towels from it. When he returned to the living room, Ivan was crouched on the floor, his back to the wall and face turned away from the rose man.

Yao approached Ivan and handed him a towel, feeling guilty in the sense that perhaps the rose man really had upset Ivan. In what way, Yao did not know. He wiped away at the vomit on the floor, thinking to burn the towels afterwards. He left them piled up on the floor, and went to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. He offered it to Ivan and sat next to him on the floor.

'Sorry.' Ivan said after taking a sip of the water, hand trembling as he set the glass down on the floor.

'It's fine.' Yao glanced towards Ivan, trying to read past the distant expression on Ivan's face, a mask so well worn that it hid any pain beneath it. 'Did I go too far?' Yao found himself asking, not exactly thinking the question through before speaking.

Ivan hesitated to answer, mouth opening to speak, only to close again. A small breath escaped his lips. 'It's not your fault. I just… remembered something.'

Yao stayed quiet for a moment, the next question reluctantly asked. 'What did you remember?'

Ivan's brows knitted together for a second, pain flickering in his eyes. 'Nothing you want to hear.'

Yao wondered if it was to do with the scar on his neck, or Ivan's first kill. Whatever it was, it was part of the dark history that Ivan refused to share. Yao wanted to hear it, out of his own selfish morbid curiosity. But he also wanted to know, to share that painful memory so that Ivan wouldn't have to suffer it alone.

He was afraid to reach his hand out, to try to comfort Ivan in some way, although he wanted to. Yao could only sit there in the dark and wait, listening to Ivan's quiet breaths and wishing to hear his voice again. Ivan was right next to him, and yet somehow, Ivan couldn't be further away from Yao.

* * *

Arthur stared pensively into the empty square on the floor, a piece of carpet having been carefully cut out where a vomit stain had been found. It was a rather hopeful assumption that it belonged to one of the killers – they would have to wait for the lab results to come back to confirm that - but nevertheless Arthur was intrigued by it. This, Alfred could very well see from the other side of the room, standing by the bloodied man in the chair.

'You done staring at it?' Alfred spoke, the stench of the corpse filling his nostrils. He would have liked to wear his mask, but could only leave it hanging off his neck with Arthur. Somehow, he felt the Englishman wouldn't hear him through the mask – more so intentionally than out of genuine hard of hearing. 'You haven't even looked at the body.'

'Oh, I know…' Arthur mumbled absent-mindedly, eyes slowly tearing off the floor and meeting Alfred. 'But sometimes it's the little things that matter. Isn't that right, James?' Arthur smiled dryly.

Alfred said nothing, having given up on correcting him. He had also given up on getting him to conduct the investigation the orderly way in which Alfred and Kiku normally did. This man, he only followed his strange whims, cane pointing to whatever caught his eye first and leading him to it. So Alfred only stood there and returned to examining the body, noting what had bled out first, which cut was the fatal wound, whether there was any hope of finding fingerprints.

'Where is Detective Honda anyway?' Arthur's voice asked from behind Alfred. 'I'm sure you would have preferred to have him here instead.' Alfred bit his lip, slightly embarrassed of the fact that this man was so quick to spot these things, to pluck them out of Alfred's head so effortlessly.

'He's interviewing the children with Ms. Sterling.' Alfred knelt down to get a closer look at the man's legs, taking note that the back of his calves were stripped of their skin.

'Ah, yes… _Ms. Sterling._ She's got a rather lovely neck, don't you think?'

Alfred turned around, looking at Arthur questioningly.

'Oh, _come on_ , James.' Arthur spun the cane once, twice, as he approached, before it slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor. 'Bugger.' He muttered and picked the cane up, his smug smile a little forced as he looked back to Alfred. 'Don't tell me you didn't take notice of her pretty little throat.'

Alfred scoffed. 'She doesn't even show her neck.' He said, remembering the turtlenecks and shirts - buttoned up to the very top – that Linda wore. Pencil line skirts and heels, but her neck always concealed.

'Hm, yes…' Arthur paced around the dead man in the chair. 'You know something's good when someone's hiding it.'

Alfred glared at Arthur, confused to some extent, but for the most part, exasperated. Nothing made sense, nothing was _normal_ with anything this man said. He spoke in his own language, and mocked others for not understanding him.

Alfred sighed, getting up from the floor. 'Could you just… get on with the profiling or…?' He gestured to the corpse. 'Whatever it is you do?'

Arthur's eyes glimmered slightly, smiling at what was most likely his own inner monologue. He cleared his throat and turned to the man in the chair. 'Well. I don't really have much to say other than that he makes a very fine rose. Very, very lovely.' Arthur whipped around to Alfred and pointed his cane (rather rudely) at him. 'But what I'm interested in,' The cane shifted to the corner of the room. 'Is that vomit stain.'

Alfred pushed the cane down with a withheld sigh of frustration. 'We don't even know who it belongs to.'

'I think we do, James.'

Alfred tilted his head in irritation, watching as Arthur took a slow step forward.

'Do you really think this family would be so sloppy as to leave remains of vomit on the floor? They're not animals, you know. Rose Man's wife surely has a Hoover lying around somewhere, ready to clean up a mess like that.'

Another step, slender hands fiddling with the cane, perhaps itching to spin it around again but too aware of the delicate surroundings.

'I can tell you right now, James, that one of our killers got terribly sick last night. We can assume he had flu or a stomach bug… but that would be boring, wouldn't it?'

A final step towards Alfred, the space between them having become small enough so that Arthur had to tilt his head up to look Alfred in the eye. Alfred half-expected him to fluster at their height difference, of having to look up at someone, but he saw no hesitation nor embarrassment in the green irises of his. The cane tapped the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.

'For some reason,' Arthur continued, his voice softening. 'One of our killers just couldn't handle it. Got queasy. Fell ill at the sight of blood…' A wry smile crept on his lips. 'Strange, isn't it?'

Alfred felt the need to back away, to retrieve the personal space that he didn't realise he valued. So close… _too_ close. Arthur's eyes seemed to delve into the mind of another, and Alfred couldn't help but fear that the man would delve into his mind next.

'You tell me.' Alfred said. 'You're supposed to understand this guy, aren't you? So you tell me if it's strange.'

Green eyes flickered, lingering on every facial twitch on Alfred's face, searching for an answer Alfred didn't know himself. 'I'd say it's rather peculiar.' Arthur's words were almost mumbled, quiet so that only Alfred could hear them. 'Perhaps he got nervous…' Arthur tilted his head slightly. 'Love can do that.'

Alfred furrowed his brows, wondering just how long the Englishman intended on keeping this distance that was anything but comfortable. 'Wh- How did you come to that conclusion?'

' _Roses_ , James.' Arthur said. 'Men with flowers spilling out of their heads. Don't tell me that doesn't strike you as romantic in any way.'

'That's not romantic, that's sick.'

Arthur smiled. 'That's why I'm helping you with this case, James. Because I can understand these _monsters_ ,' He drawled the words out mockingly. 'And you can't. But you want to know my little secret?'

Alfred said nothing, watching as Arthur leaned in. 'I only understand them because _I am_ one of them. I just haven't lost control yet.'

There was brief pause, of processing these words perhaps, before Arthur's chuckle pierced through the air. He stepped away from Alfred and walked to the front door, leaving Alfred standing there.

'Until the next body arrives…!' Were Arthur's final words before the door shut.

Even as the door had closed, Alfred's legs were still rooted fast to the floor, his head turned to the empty space that Arthur had left.

He wasn't sure what to make of him, this strange man. Once again, Alfred thought of a wolf in sheep's clothing, trying to blend in with the crowd and yet at the same time not wanting to. The wolf would not bite, somehow Alfred knew this, but it would certainly toy with its prey. Temptation, dangling loosely in front of those emerald green eyes. But Alfred had to wonder if there ever was a breaking point, a point at which the wolf could not contain himself any more.

This, to Alfred, was a terrifying thought.

* * *

_Bad child…_

Ivan panted as he ran, breaths heaving in and out of him so violently that he thought his lungs would burst. Bare feet, stung by glass shards and rusty nails that lay on the floor of the dark corridor. Barred windows spilling the white moonlight onto his back as he ran, a spotlight watching him.

_A bad child…_

Ivan pushed the double doors open, stumbling into the main reception, pitch black dark at this time of night. On a Sunday especially, Ivan knew no one would be here. They were always busy around this time, busy in the rooms of patients. Busy exchanging and trading for the frail little bodies that were to be used, eaten up in the way Ivan had suffered for so, so long.

_But you're still a bad child…_

His eyes spotting the streetlights through the main glass doors, he ran to it - only for someone to yank his arm back. Ivan cried, and tried to pry the bony hand off.

'Shut up.' A young girl's voice hissed, her nails digging in to Ivan's skin, not quite realising that it was coated with blood. The horrible, black blood…

'Natalya?' Ivan asked, the panic in his chest subsiding slightly.

'Where are you going?' The girl asked harshly. 'You're leaving me, aren't you?'

'N-Natalya, _pozhaluista…'_ Ivan whimpered. 'I need to leave.' Hearing the heavy footsteps of nurses in the nearby hallway, Ivan felt his heart throb nervously. They would punish him, surely, for what he did.

'That's fine.' Natalya hissed. 'But we're leaving together.' Her nails pierced into his skin a little more sharply as he pulled him to the glass doors. Ivan watched as the moon lit up her form, frail and bruised like his. But even so, she thrust her elbow into the glass with such force that it broke. Shards left trails of red on her arm, but she continued on until there was a big enough hole for them to crawl through.

'You first.' She barked, her head snapping back to the double doors behind them as they opened. 'Quick!' She hissed.

Ivan crawled through, wincing as pointed edges scraped his raw wounds. Night air hit him, its iciness enveloping him and stinging him. He looked around, dizziness settling in as an expanse of roads and buildings were stretched out in front of him. Almost automatically, he ran, sore feet pounding against the rough pavement.

'Wait!' Natalya shrieked, but Ivan continued to run. He did not look back, did not check to see if she had made it out too, or if the nurses had caught her. Guilt festered in him, but the shame of the blood on his hands and nightgown burnt his heart even more.

_A terrible child…_

He gulped in the cold night air as he ran across the empty streets, past the flickering streetlights, the empty houses that watched silently. He ran and ran until his legs wobbled and ached, until he stumbled and fell to the ground. A cry of pain escaped him, struggling to get back up. He fell to the ground again as muscles screamed in agony, tears overflowing onto the pavement. Ivan sat there and let himself cry.

_Like the horrible child that you are…_

Blood smeared onto the ground beneath him, mixing with his tears and running between the cracks in the concrete pavement. The metallic taste of it in his mouth – of his own blood, of someone else's blood. But it all tasted the same, hurt the same. It did not matter whose it was, it still stung Ivan's skin as he shook and trembled on the ground, sobs echoing brokenly in the street.

'Hey…' A whisper from the dark alleyway. Ivan turned his head towards the voice. 'Come here.'

In the dim light of the street lamp, a man's weathered face was partially illuminated. He was sitting with his back against the alleyway wall. Shadows cloaked him, hid the rest of his body as he croaked in a raspy voice. 'Stop crying and come here, kid.'

Ivan got up on his knees, hands shaking as he propped himself up. He did not approach the man, only stared as he was immobilised with fear.

'I'm not gonna hurt you. Just come here for a second.'

Ivan shook his head, sniffles still escaping him.

'Look, kid. I can see the blood. I know.' The man said, eyeing the smears of blood on the ground beneath Ivan. 'That's gotta hurt. So come here and I'll share with you.' He lifted up a small box in his hands. 'It'll make the pain go away for a bit. Trust me, I would know.' The man smiled weakly.

Ivan slowly stood up on his wobbly legs, finding the man's smile reassuring in some way. He looked sick, tired. Dark circles beneath his eyes, and scraggly hair framing his sallow face. Swallowing back his apprehension, Ivan approached the man. Everything hurt so much, and Ivan really wondered if there was such a thing that could alleviate pain like this. If something could numb the feeling of that horrible skin of his, of the ugly flesh on his throat that itched and burned with every passing day.

'That's it. Sit here.' The man gestured to the space next to him, littered with plastic bottles and cigarette butts. 'Sorry about the mess.' He brushed the litter away, making space for Ivan.

When Ivan had taken a seat beside the man, the man put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, a brilliant flame bursting out of the darkness with a spark. Smoke billowed out of the man's mouth, the smell of it rotten and rancid. Ivan gagged, and the man chuckled. 'You get used to the smell.' He said, and offered Ivan a cigarette. 'Now you try.'

Ivan gently took it, holding it awkwardly in his hands. 'Put it to your mouth so I can light it, kid.' The man said, holding the lighter up. It was red, gleaming in the slivers of light from the streetlamp. Ivan reached for it, wanting to hold the flame in his own hands, to feel the warmth on his skin. The man pulled it away, but Ivan reached further, grabbing it out of his hands and scurrying away.

'Hey!' The man hissed. 'That's dangerous, kid. Give it back!'

Ivan stood with his back to the wall opposite of the man, wondering why he hadn't stood up and chased after him. He eyed him for a moment, wondering if perhaps the man was broken in some way.

'Come on, kid. Don't mess with that. You're gonna hurt yourself.' The man's brows knit in concern, although his voice was laced with irritation. He struggled to push himself up, only to fall back onto the ground. 'Look, it's all I have. I need that lighter, kid. Give it back.'

Ivan opened the lid of the lighter, recalling how the man had spun the little wheel to ignite that hypnotising flame. He pressed his thumb against the wheel, snapping it down onto the little red button beside it. Flame grew out of the lighter, swaying and flickering in the darkness of the alleyway. Ivan inhaled in excitement, bringing it close to his chest and savouring its warmth, the beautiful sound of it burning in the night air. It was so bright, so warm…

'Hey, don't hold it so close!'

Ivan wanted more of it, wanted to feel the flame on his skin. To burn away, scorch the tainted and rotten flesh. Ivan felt for his neck, unwounded and unscathed, but nonetheless stinging with the bite of the monsters that fed on him. Marked, so that Ivan was forever theirs. This… this would need to go.

He brought the flame to his throat, holding it to the pale and trembling skin. He closed his eyes and let the flame lick at him, searing pain burning through his throat. He gripped the lighter more tightly, screaming in agony, but wanting that ugly mark to disappear so badly.

_Because you're an ugly, ugly child…_

He heard the man yell, shouting meaningless words to Ivan. The smell of burning flesh rose in the air, the stench of diseased flesh evaporating away. It hurt -

_It hurts so much._

But it hurt just like everything else, and so no tears fell from his eyes. He was used to pain, used to being torn apart and consumed. Already injured, already scarred and wounded.

_Already gone._

There was nothing left of him. Only burning, singing flesh, crumpling onto the ground and falling into the darkness. Only a fallen and grotesque beast, slipping away into fiery slumber. Stripped of its shell, of the husk that was once a terrified little boy. The boy had been long gone, left in the snow on that day in Bragin.

Ivan was no more than a funeral pyre for that boy, laying on the cold pavement and waiting. Ivan lay there, and let the dark night swallow him whole.


	12. Troubled Words

Yao turned on the stove, taking a quick glance through the kitchen doorway to check on Ivan. He was seated at a mahogany table, eyes covered by the blindfold Yao had insisted he wear – at least until dinner was prepared. Yao's eyes lingered perhaps a little too long on Ivan, having to tear his gaze away in realisation of this. It was strange, this feeling. Suffocating slightly, heart burning up feverishly – Yao could almost believe that he was sick. But he knew this was not the case, and wasn't sure what to make of it. All he knew was that for some reason, making Ivan smile, impressing him in some way, had become important. It was almost necessary, in a peculiar kind of way.

He set the pan onto the stove and searched through the cupboard, struggling to find where the damn woman kept her frying oil. It wasn't his kitchen, nor Ivan's, and so preparing dinner was a bit of a challenge tonight. He had to make do with whatever this house had to offer – bringing his own culinary supplies would have certainly given it away to Ivan. Yao rummaged through cupboards and drawers, eventually finding the bottle of oil and pouring it generously onto the frying pan. It sizzled, and Yao was sure Ivan would have heard it. But the dinner wasn't the real surprise, only the pretty little bow that would decorate the gift that Yao had prepared so carefully.

After throwing together a somewhat decent meal - something stir fried that Yao could thankfully say for certain wasn't human meat - he carried the two plates to the dining room and set them on the mahogany table. He would have brought a third plate for his special guest too, but there was no need to let food go to waste like that.

'It smells good.' Ivan smiled, hand tentatively reaching up for the blindfold.

'No, wait.' Yao hurried over to Ivan's seat. 'Let me.' Yao stood behind Ivan's chair, tilting Ivan's head slightly to the left, so that he would see Yao's surprise immediately. His hands hovered over the knot of the blindfold, hesitating. Was it really the best idea? Yao had gone through all the trouble to prepare it – and it certainly was a challenge – but a flicker of doubt persisted. What if Ivan felt sick at the sight of it, the way he had with the rose man? Perhaps they were not as beautiful as Yao had though they were – perhaps his creations were not beautiful at all, but hideous and ugly instead.

There were no needles this time, no flayed flesh – not even a bloodstained patch of skin! Yao had made it rather tame today.

_It'll be fine._

And yet, somehow, Yao feared Ivan's reaction.

'Is something wrong, _myshka_?'

'N-No…' Yao said, voice trailing as his hands twitched slightly. He wanted to show Ivan, for him to like it, and so Yao pushed aside his doubt. Delicately untying the knot of the blindfold, he let it fall loose and waited.

A breath of silence, before it was broken by Ivan's soft voice. 'Her heart…'

At the head of the table, a seated woman was adorned in red spider lilies - intertwined in her grey streaked hair, resting on her pale white shoulders, and sprouting from a cavity in her chest. Her eyes were left wide open, still contorted with the terror of an agonizing death. Head titled down, these eyes gazed at a scorched, black heart, cradled by her curled and bony fingers.

'Why is it burnt?' Ivan asked.

Yao released a small breath of relief, his hands still hanging where they had untied the blindfold. They sought to fall on Ivan's shoulders, to brush against the pale neck that was so adamantly concealed, but doubt once again overtook his hands. Yao let them fall onto the back of the chair instead, and chuckled nervously.

'Don't know. Just thought it would look nice.' Yao made his way around the table and sat across from Ivan. 'What do you think of it?'

Ivan's eyes were still fixed on the woman, lingering on the chest cavity from which the lilies seemed to burst out of. 'Sometimes I feel like that…' He murmured.

'Like your heart's burning?'

'No…' Ivan turned back to Yao. 'Like it's fallen out. Don't you get that sometimes?' Ivan pressed his hand to his chest, lilac eyes faintly glazed over. 'It's like something is supposed to be there, but it's not. Like someone's carved a piece of your chest out.' Ivan looked down at the table, at the plate in front of him. 'When I was little,' Ivan chuckled weakly. 'I used to think it was because I was born without half my heart, as if I was supposed to earn the rest of it somehow…'

Yao stayed quiet for a moment, chest aching oddly as he heard these words. They sounded broken, ringing in the air so softly, so hesitantly. 'Do you feel like that now?' Yao asked.

Ivan looked up, his expression surprised slightly, quickly replaced with a gentle smile and a shake of the head. 'No.'

Yao watched as Ivan picked up his fork and began to eat, eyes lingering on Ivan's expression, on his smile and wondering if it was forced. When Yao had reassured himself that the smile had not been a mask, he picked at his own food. Yao wanted to eat, his stomach felt so empty, but even so his appetite had been lost somehow. Ivan's words rang in his head uneasily, each time the meaning of them changed, warped so that the smile Yao had seen was no longer warm enough – no longer convincing enough.

Yao glanced back up at Ivan, yet again stealing glimpses of the pale face that seemed to dictate his thoughts for the past few months. He watched as Ivan scarfed down the dinner Yao prepared, and was reminded of how Yao used to be the one watched at meal times. Amused by this, a quiet chuckle escaped his lips.

Ivan looked up from his plate, smiling. 'You've been watching me, _myshka._ '

Yao chuckled again, a smile barely withheld across his warming up face. 'Sorry.' Yao averted his gaze back to his plate.

'Don't be sorry. It's nice to have someone look at you like that.'

'Like what?' Yao snapped his head up, a slight frown settling on his brows.

Ivan's smile only widened at this, lilac eyes lingering on Yao teasingly before returning to his plate. Nothing was said, and this only furthered Yao's puzzlement. Or rather, the uncomfortable air in which Ivan had left for Yao to fill in with his own conclusions. Yao fretted over this perhaps a little too much, Ivan's words once again having found their way into Yao's head.

Yao had long since given up on trying to finish his dinner when Ivan spoke up again, pulling out his flask of vodka from his pocket for his usual after meal drink. Ivan held the flask towards Yao.

'You want?'

Yao shook his head, the sharp smell of vodka overpowering even from this distance. Ivan chuckled and took a generous sip from it.

'You know, _myshka,_ ' Ivan set the flask down, smile still weakly gracing his lips, but eyes pensively drawn to the table. 'I was thinking that maybe I should take care of the killing from now on. So that you don't have to worry about it.'

Yao furrowed his brows. 'But I want to do it. It's not – I'm not doing it because I feel like I have to.' Yao wanted to say more, to say that he actually had started to look forward to spilling blood, to arranging dead bodies in fascinating and spectacular ways. How it had gotten to this point, Yao could not recall exactly. All he knew was that guilt no longer plagued him – perhaps because the people he slaughtered were no more than wild beasts, or perhaps it was because he had Ivan to share the blood with. Either way, Yao did not want to stop now.

'It's not that.. _._ ' Ivan's hand started to fiddle with the vodka flask, turning it around and around in a way that was so familiar, so strangely reminiscent of something to Yao. 'I don't want you to get caught.'

'What about you?' Yao leaned forward in his seat, wanting to see Ivan's lilac gaze, to see the emotion behind them. 'If you get caught? What then?' Yao wasn't stupid – he knew their dangerous 'night errands' wouldn't last forever. No matter what, a trail was always left, and the journey would always end.

'It doesn't matter if I get caught.' Ivan said softly, the flask still spinning around, grating and irritating in Yao's ears.

'What does that mean, it doesn't matter?' Yao reached forward and stopped the flask mid-spin. 'Why the hell wouldn't it matter?'

Ivan said nothing, his hand still resting on the flask, beneath Yao's hand. Yao waited for a response, for a word or a glance, but there was only stillness. It was with this silence that uneasiness sprouted in the pit of Yao's stomach. His hand was resting on Ivan's, cold and smooth and beautiful in every way that Yao had imagined it to be, and yet all he could feel was dread closing up his throat.

'What did you mean by that, Ivan?' Yao drew away his hand, voice shaking faintly although he did his best to keep it even. 'Why doesn't it matter?' Yao burned his eyes into Ivan's downcast ones. 'Tell me.'

Ivan exhaled slowly, hands fidgeting. Looking up, Ivan's eyes met Yao's wearily. 'You know the room I told you to never go in? I sit there every afternoon, and I look at the pictures on the wall.'

Ivan broke his gaze away, taking a breath before continuing. 'Then I open the chest, and I pull out my gun.'

Yao got up from his chair, so abruptly that the vodka flask nearly toppled over on the shaken table. 'Ivan?'

'I hold it to my head, and I ask myself: Whose life will it be today? Mine, or theirs?'

'Ivan.' Yao walked over to Ivan's side of the table, voice trembling and breath shortening as realisation settled in.

'I pull the trigger.'

Yao exhaled sharply, finding his hands grasping onto Ivan's coat, fingers feeling as if they were slipping despite his grip. 'Wh…What?'

'There's only ever one bullet in the barrel.' Ivan said calmly. 'And it's been there for the last three years.'

The world around Yao became hazy, the air suddenly stifling and thick as he struggled to wring the words out of his mouth. 'How…How could you?!' Yao took hold of Ivan's shoulders and shook them, chest feeling as if it were being crushed, still squeezed by the poisonous snake he thought he had been free of. 'You idiot! Why would you do that?! Even…' Yao felt his voice crack beneath the surface, weakening. 'Even until today?'

Ivan said nothing, a sad smile creeping across his lips. A broken, pitiful smile. Tears stung Yao's eyes as he shook Ivan again, this time more violently. 'This whole time you've…' Words failed Yao, stumbling and stopped short by the lump in his throat. Yao felt his legs crumble, weakly holding his trembling frame up as he held onto Ivan to keep from falling.

'Yao…' Ivan said softly and pried Yao's hands off, letting him collapse to the floor. Ivan slid off the chair and sat on the floor with him, cold hands taking hold of Yao's wrists. 'It's not something I can change.'

'Let go of me.' Yao tried to yank his hands away, voice trembling as tears threatened to flow.

'I won't.' Ivan pulled his hands closer. 'Not until you promise me you won't kill anymore, _myshka_.'

'Don't fucking call me that!' Yao snapped, struggling to free himself from Ivan, only to be pulled in against his chest.

'Promise me.'

'Why should I?!' Yao hissed, trying to not listen to Ivan's heartbeat against his ear, to not let himself be lulled by it. It was still there, Ivan's heart, still whole. And yet somehow, Ivan was convinced that it was incomplete, broken in some way. Broken enough to make his life a gamble, a ridiculous stroke of luck. It infuriated Yao, unnerved him so much that he wanted to push Ivan away and be done with him. But it also hurt so much that he wanted to stay, to let Ivan heal the wound with fake, meaningless words.

'Yao, I'm not hearing your promise.' Ivan crooned.

'I can't promise you that.' Yao said, muffled against Ivan's coat, tears drying on it. 'Because if you die on me tomorrow, I'll kill the whole fucking world.'

Ivan chuckled, the sound of it reverberating in his chest.

'I mean it.' Yao said, words wobbling as they left his lips, unsteady and fragile as they were spoken. 'I'll kill everyone, including myself, if you leave. And then it'll matter, won't it?'

'Yao…' Ivan murmured. 'You don't understand. You can't.'

'Only because you make it so difficult…'

Ivan stayed quiet, hand caressing Yao's hair as the silence enveloped them.

'I don't have anyone anymore.' Yao choked out, hand grasping Ivan's scarf. 'You're the only one left.'

'I know.' Ivan said softly, his voice overtaken by the sound of his beating heart. Yao listened to the throb of Ivan's heart, every rise of Ivan's chest heavy with the luck of a man who had dodged the same bullet for the past three years. A man, who at one point, was nearly choked in his sleep by Yao. It was a horrible thought, wondering what might have happened if Yao had been brave enough to go through with it. Without Ivan, without his cold hands and gentle eyes that dreamt of sunflowers. Yao could no longer imagine a world without him, and it hurt to realise this. It ached in his chest, pained at the thought that there was someone in the world Yao treasured in this unusual way.

'I'll promise not to kill anyone.' Yao said, face still buried in Ivan's coat. 'But that's only if you promise to stay alive. No stupid gambles with guns.'

Ivan chuckled, voice ringing with a light heartedness that Yao did not realise he needed until he heard it. 'I promise, _myshka_.'

Yao felt a breath of relief leave his lips - a release of fear, of anxiety and the fluttery feeling in his chest. But despite this, his chest still ached, sore as if a hole had been born into it. Mangled and torn, it was as if Yao's scorched heart was seeking something to fill in the void that had made itself present. It was a dull pain, an ache somehow blanketed by the feel of the scarf Yao held on to so tenaciously. An agony numbed by the sound of Ivan's heart, of the other mangled heart that bore the same wound.

It was because of this that somehow, in a strange and inexplicable way, Yao was afraid.

* * *

The dogs whined as they pooled around the door, noses pressed to the gap beneath from which the shadow of a man lingered. The sound of knocking resounded loudly, impatiently, and riled them up. Alfred approached the door with heavy footsteps, not having to glance at his watch to know that it was far too late for anyone to be visiting – let alone a pissed off Englishman.

'Open the bloody door!' A hand rapped onto the door once again, stopping Alfred in his tracks. For a moment, he considered not opening the door. Having not said a word, Arthur might just assume that Alfred was fast asleep. Alfred could simply make his way back to the living room and get on with his work, undisturbed - free of whatever theatrical revelation the Englishman was planning on demonstrating with his ridiculous cane and idiotic smirk.

'I know you're awake, James. No point in tip-toeing away.' Arthur tapped the door sharply. 'I could say it from out here, if you like. Granted, it's pouring bloody cats and dogs out here, but at least I've got a much larger audience-'

Alfred swung the door open, the cluster of dogs scattering away as he did so. On his doorstep, Arthur stood with his hand leaning onto his cane. His hair and coat were soaking wet, although he did not seem to mind this.

'That's better.' Arthur smiled, walking past Alfred and hanging his cane and wet coat onto the coat rack without invitation. 'You wouldn't happen to have tea by any chance? I would kill for a cup-'

'What are you doing here?' Alfred shut the door behind him, leaning against it and glaring the Englishman down.

Arthur blinked. 'Well, you're not being a very gracious host, are you?' He chuckled nervously, hand combing through his rain soaked hair. 'But I suppose I should get straight on with my point… Let's take a seat, shall we? Forget the tea.' Arthur made his way to the living room, as if he owned the place. The dogs, perhaps sensing this, followed him without question. Alfred watched from the doorway, and did the same, albeit with a muttered curse.

Arthur lingered around the coffee table, littered with case files and empty mugs. 'Is this whisky I see here?' Arthur smiled, picking up a half-drunken glass and holding it up. He glanced to Alfred. 'If you don't mind, I came a rather long way to get here…' He put the glass to his lips and tipped it over, gulping down its remains. He nearly tossed the glass back onto the table, coughing and spluttering.

'I take it you don't drink often.' Alfred said dryly, planting his feet into the carpet and refusing to take a seat. Arthur shook his head, still coughing as he threw himself onto the couch.

'Oh no, I do…' Arthur said, wringing off his scarf and throwing it to the side. 'I'm just more of a wine man myself.' His green eyes flickered from the couch to Alfred. 'Why aren't you sitting?'

'I don't have time for this.' Alfred shifted his weight to one leg, already tired of the man. 'Just tell me what you came to say.'

'But that's no fun!' Arthur slapped the seat beside him. 'Sit, James! And listen!' Arthur tilted his head, spotting the whisky bottle on the floor. He bent over to pick it up. 'There's more. Lovely…' He unscrewed the cap and took another generous gulp, his gaze lingering over the case files in the meanwhile. He set the bottle down and sighed.

'Who's this?' Arthur picked up a photo, showing it to Alfred. 'I haven't seen his face in the case files before.'

'That's because he's not related to the case.' Alfred grabbed the photo.

'Oh?' Arthur raised a brow.

Alfred set the photo onto a pile of papers. 'He went missing in July. But his missing persons report was retracted a few weeks later. No word of what had happened, or where he had been found. Nothing.'

'And this photo is here because…?' Arthur's eyes bore into Alfred, glimmering with curiosity and intrigue. It was not a welcome sight, an expression that unsettled Alfred. It was a look that searched for answers, relentlessly and with a perception sharp enough to cut through lies effortlessly. Evading these kinds of eyes was a futile task.

'I was convinced it was a lead at one point.' Alfred said, considering the seat on the couch hesitantly. 'He went missing around the same time one of our victims died, would have had to cross through the same area in which the murder took place to get home. But…'

'But what?'

Alfred slumped onto the couch. 'I don't know, just… It's a dead end. We don't even know where he is right now. And don't get me started on the guy who filed the missing persons report. Works at a seedy place called the 'Poisoned Apple'. Every time I go there to ask questions, the guy's always 'visiting family back in Korea'. Convenient, right?'

Alfred turned to Arthur, finding him with the whisky bottle on his lips. 'I'm sorry… what was that?' Arthur hiccupped, a rose flush on his cheeks.

Alfred stared back, feeling his teeth grind slightly as he spoke. 'You're not here about the case, are you?'

'No…' Arthur drawled out, tilting the bottle this way and that as if its contents were fascinating to him. 'There was something on my mind… something important.' Arthur turned to Alfred, a drowsy smile on his lips. 'But I seem to have forgotten it!' He chuckled lazily, tilting his head in such a way that Alfred had to wonder if the man was already drunk when he arrived here.

Alfred sighed and leant back into the couch, shutting his eyes tightly as a migraine began to emerge with a dull ache. He didn't care that Arthur was likely watching, examining him even in his drunken stupor. Alfred only wanted this case to end, for the names to stop piling up and for the blood to stop dripping into the carpets of families. It was in this moment of momentary exasperation that he felt one of his dogs lick his hand, jolting him in his seat.

He snapped to Arthur, finding him chuckling in amusement. The whisky bottle was tipped once again, the very last of it downed by Arthur. He let the bottle fall to floor loosely, half-lidded and drowsy eyes gazing at Alfred. 'You're a very compassionate man, James.'

Alfred frowned at this. 'How's that?'

'You seem to have a knack for collecting strays. Even the nasty looking ones.' Arthur smiled, turning so he sat facing Alfred. 'I wonder… If I were a stray, would you take me in?'

'Depends. Do you bite?'

'Only if you don't feed me.'

'Then maybe I would.' Alfred said, watching curiously as Arthur's demeanour melted before him. Shoulders slackening, words flowing fluidly and without restraint. The sheep costume was being shed, and the wolf was making himself at home.

Arthur exhaled softly, perhaps in amusement. 'Good to know.' He tilted his head so that it rested against the back of the couch, emerald eyes still fixed on Alfred. 'You know, I always used to want a dog when I was a boy.' Arthur turning his head up so that his eyes could wander on the ceiling. 'Never got one, though.'

'Why's that?' Alfred asked.

'Father said 'no'.' Arthur drawled out. 'A beastly child can't have his own beast, he said. Simply can't.' A weak laughter rang in the air, Arthur's voice softening as he continued to speak. 'He was always a brute. Terrible with words. Far better with a belt in his hands…' The laughter rang out again, more forced this time as the air fell uncomfortably silent.

'I'm sorry.' Alfred said, although he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for.

'Oh, don't be. It happens. Bad children. Bad parents. Sometimes both.' Arthur waved his hand dismissively. 'Hm. And yet, I never thought either of these was the case for my father. No, he was… special. My father was a kind of his own entirely.' Arthur turned his head to Alfred, expression neutral as if he were merely talking about the weather. 'He wasn't all too different from our boy, James. He rather liked the feel of blood on his hands, too...'

Alfred could only gaze back wordlessly, trying to read the strange expression on Arthur's face, wondering if it was genuine apathy, or well-hidden pain. He wondered if the drunken man was toying with him, or actually confiding in him. Alfred wasn't sure, and so he only stayed quiet and listened.

'I'm not lying, James.' Arthur scooted closer to Alfred, the stench of whisky filling Alfred's nostrils. 'My father really was a bloodthirsty bastard!' Arthur poked him with a sharp, accusatory jab. 'He had a taste for young boys, too, the old bugger…'

Arthur dropped his head onto Alfred's shoulder, leaving Alfred to shift uncomfortably beneath his weight.

'Did…' Alfred started to ask, hesitating with his words. 'What happened to him?'

'They got him in the end, after he'd eaten up two of our neighbour's sons. And I do mean that literally, dear James. The police found a little finger in our trash can. A teeny, tiny, bloody finger…'

Alfred felt his throat close up a little, having perhaps seen too many children's dead bodies' first hand to not visualise what Arthur had just described. He felt Arthur sigh against his shoulder, and felt the need to shrug him off, uneasy with the proximity that Arthur had made himself so comfortable with.

'Fuck, did I really just tell you that?' Arthur shot back in his seat, rubbing his hands over his face tiredly. When his hands slid off his rosy face and fell into his lap, he looked to Alfred. 'I've only told doctors this, you know. People who want to get into my head. Not that I make it easy for them.' Arthur smiled wryly. 'How about you? Will you make it difficult for me?'

'Make what difficult?' Alfred furrowed his brows.

'Tell me about your childhood, James.' Arthur placed his elbow onto the back of the couch, leaning into it. 'I'm curious.'

Alfred blinked. He taken aback by the question, by the glimmer in Arthur's eyes – although it wasn't anything new. 'There's not much to tell.'

'Oh, come on. There must be something worth telling.' Arthur's gaze flickered, lingering in the way they always did when he was examining something, looking for something in Alfred's face. 'Some little memory, a moment you think of when you lock away a terrible beast. What made you _you_ , James? I'd like to know.'

'You don't need to know.'

Arthur's eyes brightened at this, an odd gleam in his eye. 'You want me to work for it, don't you? That, James, I can do.' Arthur stumbled up from the couch, wobbling slightly as he did so. 'Off we go!' Arthur drawled out, finger raised in the air decisively. He wandered towards the bedroom, the dogs following him excitedly and yapping.

'What are you doing?' Alfred got up from his seat, reluctant as sleepiness tugged at him. He was not awake enough to be dealing with Arthur's antics.

'I'm profiling you, James!' Arthur called out from the bedroom. 'Now… what do we have here…?'

Arthur suddenly went quiet, Alfred sighing as he walked into the bedroom. Alfred stopped still in his tracks, by the doorway through which the living room light spilled over his shoulders and into the dim bedroom. Where the light had fallen, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, a photo frame in his hands. It had been taken out of a drawer, out of a place that should not have been opened.

'Put that down.' Alfred growled, stepping forward to approach Arthur.

Arthur softly traced his hand over the photo. 'She looks so much like you…'

'I said, put it down.' Alfred seethed through his teeth, reaching forward to grab the photo, but Arthur pulling it away quickly from his reach.

'I can presume it's your sister.' Arthur looked up at Alfred, expression laced with sympathy – a kind of look that Alfred was perhaps too used to. Only this time, it was from a man more broken than he was. More pitiful in his demeanour, and it was in this way that perhaps Arthur could understand better than anyone. It was this that unsettled Alfred the most when the question was asked. 'What happened to her?'

Alfred reached once more for the photo, getting ahold of it this time. 'I don't know.' He placed it back into the drawer and shut it gently. 'She just… disappeared. Only thing left of her was her phone. I found it lying in the middle of a road…'

Silence. Arthur only sat there and kept his gaze fixed on Alfred, his face not contorted with smugness or conceit as it usually was. But nothing needed to be said, Alfred knew. He knew what Arthur was thinking at that moment, knew what everyone thought the moment Alfred told them about his sister. What ran through their head but never left their lips. She was dead, perhaps worse.

But Alfred refused to believe it. Because he didn't know, didn't see what had become of her, he could continue on searching. He could continue on, and not crumble. It was this ignorance that kept Alfred from falling, held him up like the strings of a marionette. He could play the part of the detective, of the hero he could never be, because –

_Ignorance is bliss._

Once again, Alfred saw the man with the flowers in his head, of Arthur as he stalked around it. A predator, spotting invisible tracks with unwavering eyes. A man who could never enjoy ignorance, only feign it.

Alfred felt hands on his shoulders, tentative in the way they touched him.

'I'm… deeply sorry.' Arthur said softly, gaze flickering in the dimly lit room and lingering around Alfred's eyes. 'Not knowing is the most difficult, isn't it?'

Alfred nodded weakly, his chest feeling as if it was about to collapse. 'I…' Alfred choked out, throat closing up as the words struggled to form.

'You don't have to say anything.' Arthur pat his shoulders gently. 'You haven't made this difficult. You haven't made this difficult for me at all, have you, Ja-' Arthur hesitated, pausing to consider his words. 'Can I call you Alfred, James? Or Jones?'

Alfred blinked, swallowing away his grief and nodding. 'Y-Yeah. Call me Alfred.'

'Alfred…' Arthur smiled, hands sliding away from him. 'You can call me Arthur.'

'How about Artie?' Alfred asked, the question meant as a slight banter, but the grave expression stuck on his lips and eyes.

'Don't be ridiculous.' Arthur snapped, striding away to leave the room, nearly bumping into the doorframe as he did so. 'I'll be uh… getting my coat, if you don't mind.'

'Sure…' Alfred watched as the Englishman stumbled out into the living room, fumbling for his coat and cane. The man was still pompous as ever, even with too much whisky running in his veins. But something was different about him now, at least to Alfred. Perhaps he was affected by that strange touch of his, of the words that so softly made their way into Alfred's mind and lingered.

Either way, when Alfred went to bed that night and thought of where in the world his sister might be, Arthur's voice rang in his head.

_There must be something worth telling… What do you think of when you lock away a terrible beast?_

_What do you think of, Alfred?_

_Tell me…_

Somehow, the answer was one even Alfred was afraid to hear. Afraid to hear it himself, he let the Arthur in his mind listen to it. It was only with this thought in mind that he could finally drift away into sleep.


	13. Death Will Set You Free?

'Ivan?' Yao pushed the door open tentatively, uneasy at the thought that it was almost noon and he had yet to see Ivan's face. The room was dim, save for the streams of daylight escaping through the boarded up windows. The bed – the only piece of furniture in this room – was hidden away in the corner, Ivan's form buried beneath the blankets.

It was silent as Yao walked across the room, his bare feet not making a sound on the rough wooden floor. Approaching the bed, his eyes instinctively looked for movement, for the rise and fall of Ivan's chest beneath the sheets. It was perhaps an unreasonable kind of anxiety, but one that Yao couldn't help but feel, particularly after hearing of the gamble Ivan took every morning. Suddenly every absence of him, every moment of not knowing, had become tortuous for Yao. It was for this reason that when he put his hand on Ivan's shoulder and felt it rise softly, a breath of relief left Yao's lips.

'Ivan.' Yao whispered, shaking his shoulder slightly. 'Wake up.'

Ivan responded by burying his face further into the blankets, shifting slightly without a word. Yao shook him again, but it seemed that Ivan was deep asleep. He puzzled over why this might be – Ivan was often up at early hours, already cutting up bodies or cooking breakfast by the time Yao had woken up. For the sun to be up and Ivan to still be fast asleep, surely something was wrong.

Yao felt uneasiness sprout again in his stomach, sitting on the edge of the bed and wishing the nagging worries in his chest would quit gnawing at him. Once again, his heart felt hollow and sore, the sight of Ivan's wintry face making it worse somehow. Ivan looked so calm, almost angelic in this dimly lit room.

As Yao's eyes lingered on Ivan's pale face, he caught sight of the white scarf wrapped around his neck. Yao felt a prick of curiosity stab him, wondering what kind of a scar was so hideous or so horrible that Ivan had to hide it even when he slept. Yao gently pulled the covers back slightly, exposing more of the white scarf wrapped snugly around Ivan's neck. Uncomfortable as it might have been, Ivan seemed to cling onto it dearly.

Yao felt an urge to pull away the scarf, at least while Ivan was still asleep and unaware. He would have a look and then leave it be. Ivan would not have to know, nor even explain the scar.

_I only want to look. Just once…_

Yao's hand reached for the scarf, fingers gripping the edge of it delicately. He stopped still, listening to Ivan's breaths whispering softly in the air. Steady, quiet even in the silence of the room. Yao's own, however, did not match. His own breaths were slightly uneven, an almost subtle kind of panic riddled between them as his fingers brushed against Ivan's neck. Nervous at the slight intimacy, yes, but also nervous at the dangerous ground he was treading on. It would almost be a betrayal to pull the scarf away like this, a kind of decision that put Ivan's trust at stake.

And yet, Yao's fingers itched to tug away the scarf, still hovering hesitantly over Ivan's throat. Yao had not felt this kind of reluctance since the night he had tried to strangle Ivan – or rather, considered it.

It was in this position of indecisiveness that Yao had found himself frozen, listening to Ivan's breaths and wondering, until a knock on the front door jolted him out of it. Ivan began to shift beneath the blankets, eyes fluttering open before Yao could even think of hurrying out of the room. Ivan furrowed his brows for a moment, before smiling drowsily at Yao.

' _Dobroe utro, myshka._ ' Ivan sat up. 'Is something-'

The sound of rapping on the door echoed within the house again, louder this time. Ivan's threw his legs over the edge of the bed and hurried to answer the door.

'One moment, _myshka._ ' Ivan sighed quietly.

Yao followed Ivan out, lingering in the hallway as Ivan opened the door.

'Ah, Katyusha.' Ivan said, stepping aside to let her in. 'I did not expect you to get here so fast.'

'You did say it was important.' Katyusha said, wiping her boots on the doormat before walking into the hallway. Upon seeing Yao, she smiled. 'It's nice to see you again, Yao.'

'Yeah.' Yao smiled back, although his eyes were immediately drawn to the orange bag in Katyusha's hands. 'Nice to see you, too.'

'So, um.' Katyusha turned to Ivan, quickly returning her gaze back to Yao. 'Whenever you're ready.'

Yao frowned. 'Ready for what?'

'Oh…'Katyusha's eyes widened, her head turning back to Ivan. 'Didn't…didn't you-'

'I haven't told him yet, Katyusha.' Ivan shut the door behind him.

'Told me what?'

'Why don't we sit down first?' Ivan smiled gently, sweetly in the way Yao had become so familiar with. Only this was the smile Ivan wore when he wanted to steer the conversation his way, and it unnerved Yao, to say the least.

It was with this annoyance – as well as an odd sense of anxiety – that Yao sat with at the kitchen table, arms crossed and waiting for the other two to start talking.

'So…um.' Katyusha spoke softly, looking to Ivan. 'Ivan, maybe you should…'

Ivan nodded, directing his gaze to Yao. 'Yao, Katyusha's aware of our situation. She's agreed to help us.'

'With what?' Yao shifted in his seat. It felt odd, the way Ivan was speaking to him, to have Ivan and Katyusha look at him as if conducting a press conference of some kind. Words were stiff, withheld and controlled. Yao felt as if he were back in that interview he had gone to so long ago, with cold eyes glaring at him apathetically and a nervous jittery feeling settling in his stomach.

'We're going to fake your death, _myshka_.'

Yao blinked. '…What?'

'It'll be fine, Yao.' Katyusha reached over to hold his hand, her touch warm and soft, although not comforting in the least. 'It's not as scary as it sounds!'

'Katyusha's going to help us draw some blood.' Ivan said, his lips curved into a slight smile, as if trying to comfort Yao, too. 'And I can take care of staging it so that it-'

'What?' Yao pulled his hand away from Katyusha, glaring incredulously at Ivan. 'Why?'

'This is all so you don't get caught, _myshka_.' Ivan said. 'We can't have you going to jail, _da?_ ' Playfulness saturated his voice in an almost sickeningly sweet way, coating words so that they would somehow sound less terrifying to Yao. But Yao read past the tone of voice, the smiling mask Ivan was wearing. There was something else, something hiding behind Ivan's smile. Yao only swallowed quietly and asked his next question.

'And if they catch you instead?' The question was not an easy one, a flickering shadow crossing Ivan's eyes as it was asked. It was this micro-expression, this tiny glimpse of an answer, that set Yao's stomach into a twisting motion.

'That is something to discuss another time, _myshka_.' Ivan said, his gaze flickering, avoiding both Yao's and Katyusha's questioning expressions.

The room went quiet, a heavy curtain of silence falling over for a painstakingly slow moment. Katyusha fidgeted in her seat, before speaking up.

'Is… is this something you're okay with, Yao? Drawing blood, I mean.'

Yao nodded weakly. 'Y-Yeah…' He was not, however, comfortable with Ivan's words, of the sacrifice Ivan was knowingly making. But there was little choice in the matter. Ivan would knock him out unconscious to draw the blood if he had to, if it meant keeping the police off Yao's trail. This, Yao could see in the lilac eyes that watched him so carefully.

'I'll uh…' Katyusha looked to Ivan for his silent approval. 'I'll get started then.' She got up from her seat and knelt by the orange bag she was carrying earlier. She pulled out a pair of gloves, and began to set out equipment onto the kitchen table.

'You're not afraid of needles, are you? Or have any allergies?' Katyusha asked somewhat absent-mindedly as she rolled up her sleeves and slipped the gloves on. She picked up a small plastic bag, attaching a small tube to it.

'No.' Yao replied, his mouth going a little dry - not out of fear for the sharp needle that Katyusha was now holding up, but more so out of that fact that he was actually going through with this plan Ivan had come up with. He looked to Ivan and hoped he would understand this. Ivan only smiled back, and Yao felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Once again, a mask was glaring at him, and Yao felt a slight sting of betrayal because of it.

Katyusha gently took ahold of Yao's hand, turning it up and rolling up his sleeve. She pulled up a kitchen chair towards Yao and sat in it to examine Yao's arm. She tied a rag above Yao's elbow tightly, before wiping the skin of his arm with an alcohol drenched tissue.

'It's only sting a bit.' Katyusha said sweetly, as if placating a child. She pressed her thumb over a vein, faintly showing through the translucent pale skin of Yao's arm. 'You might feel a little dizzy, too. But that's okay.'

The needle pierced Yao's skin, a viscous crimson red draining into the tube. Yao watched it with fascination, almost wishing Ivan had been the one to drain the blood. He marvelled at the sight of his blood pouring out so carefully, so slowly and beautifully, even if the prospect of what would be done with it was something that Yao still felt uneasy about.

The bag was gradually being filled up with the dark fluid, Yao glancing up at Ivan to see if he too, was watching. Lilac irises gazed back at him, softly and without the fake cheeriness Yao had gotten weary of. He felt his chest tighten, a small jab of pain piercing it. The gentle smile graced across Ivan's lips was half-hearted, broken so that it almost wasn't a smile at all. It was this honest and raw gesture that sprouted thorny roses in his chest, feeling guilt for feeling irritation at Ivan in the first place. Yao had begun to wonder if perhaps it was better that he had not seen this broken smile, that maybe Ivan had known what he was doing when he coated his words sweetly for Yao.

As the deep red of the bag approached the top, nearly filling it up, Yao's vision flickered slightly, the room darkened as if a candle was being blown out. He felt the needle being pulled out, a slight pressure on his arm as everything was swallowed up by a grainy darkness.

'Make sure he doesn't fall. He might need a few minutes.'

'I know…'

The voices echoed and drifted in Yao's ears, drowning in and out as if Yao was being submerged into deep water and pulled back out again. He felt the world spin on itself, tilting and falling until a cold touch slowed it to a stand-still. Ice, melting onto his arm where the needle had stung. Powdery snow falling onto his shoulders, somehow keeping him from falling. It was cold, distant… but it was comforting, an anchor for Yao.

But it was melting, dissolving away.

_Don't go…_

Where was it? The snow…

'I'm not leaving, _myshka_.' Ivan chuckled, his voice so very close.

A warm glow spilled into the pitch black, the kitchen light shining into his eyes. Lifting his head up from the back of the chair, Yao felt a dull headache emerge. As his eyes adjusted to the light, graininess fading away, he saw Ivan's pale face.

'You passed out for a moment there.' Ivan smiled gently. 'Don't try to stand up just yet _, da_?'

Yao nodded weakly. His eyes lingered over to his arm, a cotton pad held by Ivan's hand to where the needle had pricked him. Pale fingers pressed into his arm, brushing against his skin frostily.

'Where…' Yao rolled his head side to side, the kitchen empty, save for a bag of crimson blood lying on the table. 'Where's Katyusha…?'

'She's gone home.' Ivan wrapped gauze where the cotton pad was being held. 'She told me to make sure you don't overexert yourself.' He glanced up at Yao. 'You should probably rest, _myshka_.'

'Yeah…' Yao said drowsily, his head feeling empty and light. He grasped the sleeve of Ivan's shirt. 'Don't leave without me, though.' He wanted to be there when his blood spilled across the floor, to see his own ghostly death flicker before him.

' _Ochi chernye…_ ' Ivan placed his hand over Yao's. 'Of course I won't.'

* * *

Kiku frowned, leaning in closer to the file. 'Something is not right here…'

'Tell me about it.' Alfred slapped the pile of papers in his hands to the table, picking up the paper at the top of the stack. 'Take this kid, for example. Vincent Erikson. Admitted into Glen Hills in 1999, aged eight. But when he was released in 2006, he was ten years old. And that's just one of them.'

'Yes, I've seen patient profiles like that, too…' Kiku said, sliding a file across the desk. 'Like this one. Abigail Fulman. Admitted in August of 1995 for unspecified reasons. Died in January of 1997.' He placed his finger on the top right corner of the page, a small date printed where it rested. 'But the record wasn't created until after her death.'

'You can thank digital records for that giveaway…' Alfred muttered, pulling the page closer to read it. 'They're falsified, aren't they?' Alfred said. 'This Abigail Fulman… She never existed.'

'That's what I was thinking as well.' Kiku said, voice softer than it was before. 'Glen Hills staff created new identities for deceased patients. It's likely this was done to maintain government funding.'

Alfred set the paper back onto the pile, leaning back into his desk chair. 'Which makes our job a hell of a lot harder. Our guy could be any one of these patients, and we still wouldn't really have a name.'

Kiku sat across the desk wordlessly, mulling over the sheet Alfred had dumped back onto the pile. After a moment of pensiveness, brown eyes glanced up at Alfred. 'Where is Dr. Kirkland?'

'Hm?' Alfred rubbed his forehead, a persistent ache causing him to wince. 'Why should I know?'

'I-I don't know.' Kiku flustered. 'I just thought to ask…'

'Don't worry about it.' Alfred chuckled weakly. 'He's uh…probably busy or something. Looking for a top hat to match his cane.'

Kiku offered a small smile, although neither of them were really laughing.

'Besides,' Alfred continued, his smile fading. 'There haven't really been any bodies turning up lately. It's been kind of quiet… I don't think he's got much to do right now.'

'He never said much about the woman with the burnt heart.'

'No…' Alfred shook his head, crossing his arms and letting his gaze drift off. 'He didn't.' His eyes spotted a crinkle in the stack of papers on his desk, pages curled as they often did when something was spilled onto them.

'Has someone…' Furrowing his brows, Alfred lifted off a huge chunk of the stack, leaving only the pages that seemed to be a little wet. 'Has someone already been through these?' Alfred leafed through the pages. 'Someone's spilt something on them… like coffee or-'

Alfred's thumb caught onto one page in particular, his gaze fixed on the name printed at the top of it.

'Kiku.' Alfred snapped his head up. 'Look at this.' He passed the page over to him.

Kiku took it gently, glancing at it and frowning. He looked to Alfred questioningly. 'Is that..?'

'I think we might have our killer.' Alfred said, an involuntary smile tugging at his lips as adrenaline coursed through his veins. 'At least, we got one of them.'

* * *

Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead, even as the cold air of the room stilled and settled. So terrified, so scared of what might happen next, it was all spoken in her ragged breaths and trembling shoulders. As if staring into a mirror, the sight was familiar to Yao. Anticipation, waiting for a painful death, was perhaps more terrifying than anything else. Sympathy, however, did not reach him.

She was a frail and weary looking woman, haggard lines of a frequently worn frown etched permanently onto her face. Her nails, like bloodied claws, were painted a deep shade of red. Yao did not have to ask Ivan to know why she was tied up in that chair, he knew. He could almost see the teary faces, hear children's muffled cries and pleas. It was those curled and spindly fingers, painted red as if in warning, that bit into the shivering skin of children. No, sympathy did not reach Yao. The knife dangled loosely and freely in his hands, waiting to slice skin away if Ivan would let him.

A hand clamped down onto his shoulder. 'Put the knife away, _myshka_.'

Obedient, Yao slipped the knife back into his pocket. He looked to Ivan, the absence of a smile unnerving. Ivan pulled out a folded page from his coat pocket, handing it to Yao.

'I need you to hold it out for her to read.' Ivan took a tape recorder from his coat and gave this to Yao. 'You'll have to record, _da?_ '

Yao nodded as Ivan retreated to the far side of the room. He turned to the woman in the chair and tore off the tape from her mouth.

'Start reading when I tell you.' Yao held out the page in front of her. 'Only what's on the page, okay? Don't make this more painful than it needs to be.'

The woman nodded vigorously, perhaps catching scent of a way out, a sliver of hope that she would simply read the page and be left alone. A silly, perhaps overoptimistic notion, to say the least.

Yao clicked down on the record button, prodding the woman and holding the recorder by her mouth.

'H-Help me, please…' She croaked out hoarsely, sunken eyes trained on the paper obediently. 'So-Someone's broken in, I think there's two of them. They – They're-'

A loud thud startled the two of them, Yao's gaze snapping towards Ivan on the other side of the living room. A couch had been turned over to its side. Ivan only nodded in his direction, a silent reassurance for Yao to continue on. Yao prodded the woman again.

'T-They're-' She whimpered, tears rolling down her cheeks as glass shattered onto the floor. 'In the living room. One of them pulled out a knife. They haven't found me yet. I'm hiding under the table, but-'

A flower vase knocked onto the floor, piercing the air as the woman swallowed her cry. 'But I can see one of them on the floor. He – He's bleeding. He can see me, but he's not saying anything. Oh God, I think he's dead. He's dead…'

The woman looked up from the paper, her trembling mouth agape. But Yao did not stop recording. He looked to Ivan, approaching with heavy footsteps. The woman frantically whipped her head from Ivan to Yao, eyes widening so that the whites of her eyes glistened even in the dim light of the room.

'N-No…' She whimpered. 'No! Please!'

Ivan untied the rope around her waist, yanking her up from the chair. Yao pulled out his knife and held it out to Ivan. Ivan took hold of it, and without even glancing up at Yao, he drove the glinting knife into the woman's throat. Hot blood spattered onto Yao as the woman shrieked and gurgled, blood sprouting out from her lips as she screamed. The knife twisted and dragged across her neck, her head falling limply as the knife reached its endpoint. Ivan let her fall to the floor, her body strewn on the carpet by the dining table. Ivan pushed the chair into the dining table with his boot, and slung the loose rope so that it hung on his shoulder.

Cold and bloody fingers brushed against Yao's, folding around them and pressing down where Yao's index finger held the stop button.

'Thank you for the knife, _myshka_.' The recorder was pried out of his hand, replaced with the dripping knife.

'Y-Yeah…' Yao stared into his hand absent-mindedly. He snapped his gaze up to Ivan. 'Why did you do that?'

'Do what?' Ivan pulled a rag out of his coat pocket, wiping his hands before cleaning off the splotches of blood from Yao's face.

'All you did was slit her throat.'

Ivan nodded, the rag trailing down the side of Yao's face. 'And?'

'By your standards, that's a mercy killing.' Yao reached up to snatch the rag away, wiping his own hands and bloody knife.

'Mercy?' Ivan chuckled, although it was a laugh devoid of its usual airy lightness. 'No… That was not mercy.'

'What was it then?'

'A lack of patience, _myshka_.' Ivan smiled. Once again, it was a broken smile, weakly holding back something Yao had yet to understand. Ivan brushed the hair away from Yao's face with icy hands, the air around Yao becoming stifling and thick as they left icy trails on his skin.

'Patience for what?' Yao asked, breath shaking as Ivan's hand trailed to the back of his head, tugging at the ponytail and pulling the hairband loose. A curtain of hair spread across Yao's back, Ivan's hands combing through it. 'Wh-What are you doing?' Yao asked, although he did not flinch or try to move away.

' _Ochi chernye… Vizhu traur v vas po dushe moyei._ ' Ivan murmured, sighing. He pulled his hand away, but Yao wanted to snatch it back, to feel it on his skin even if it made him shiver.

'How would you do it?' Yao grabbed Ivan's sleeve, afraid to reach for his hand even though he sought it desperately. 'How would you kill me, if you had to?'

Ivan exhaled sharply, perhaps in what was supposed to be an amused chuckle. He brought his hand to Yao's neck, dragging his finger across it slowly. Yao stopped Ivan's hand in its tracks.

'Not as a mercy killing.' Yao said. 'Or as an impatient kill, whatever it is you want to call it. As one of the others… how would you do it?'

'Yao.' Ivan curled his hand so that it cupped Yao's chin. 'Perhaps when I first met you… I might have been able to. But now…'

'…Now what?' Yao asked, feeling drawn in by the cold hand guiding his chin. Suffocating, drowning, burning, Yao felt as if he were dying a million deaths in Ivan's hold, feeling the ache and sting of every of them in his chest.

Ivan traced his thumb over Yao's cheek. 'There's…' Ivan sighed, pulling his hand away, only to leave yet another void, another hole in Yao's chest. 'There's work to be done, _myshka_.'

Ivan pried the rag out of Yao's hand and walked to where the overturned couch lay, a black bag beside it. He knelt down and opened it, shoving the rope and rag into it. He pulled out a deep red bag out, a small pump and tube attached to it.

'Stand over there, _myshka_.' Ivan gestured to the space in front of the overturned couch. Glass crunched beneath Yao's boots as they made their way towards the couch, and he stood there with a twisting and churning feeling in his stomach.

Ivan stood behind Yao, wrapping his arm across Yao's chest. 'Don't let go of the bag.' Ivan said, his free hand placing the blood filled bag in Yao's hands. Holding the pump up against Yao's neck, Ivan stood still for a moment and chuckled.

'Relax, _myshka_. I can feel your heartbeat.'

'S-Sorry.' Yao exhaled, squeezing the bag gently in his hands. 'Is… uh… Is this your mercy killing?'

'I'm not sure what it is…' Ivan said, his breath lingering by Yao's ear and making him shiver. 'But it's for both of us, _myshka_.'

A vision of a bloodied heart flashed before Yao's eyes, of the torn ribcage from which it had been ripped out of. A memory of an old nightmare, somehow still fresh, still raw as Yao heard these words.

Ivan's hand shifted on Yao's neck. 'Shall we begin?'

Yao nodded, although he did not have much say in the matter. A death by Ivan's hand, real or imagined, seemed inevitable, inescapable in any world Yao chose to inhabit.

Ivan's hand gently squeezed the pump, crimson spraying out of it as Ivan slowly dragged it to the side of Yao's throat. Splotches and stretches of blood, _his_ blood, splayed out on the mottled ceiling. Staining the walls, sparingly painting them red. The bag quickly sank in Yao's hands, the blood draining out of it faster than he had expected.

There was a breath, a moment of silence. Still in Ivan's grip, Yao let himself hang loosely in his hold, gaze trailing over the patterns of his blood on the wall. A chuckle bubbled up in his throat, quiet and hesitant, but in the quietness of the room it was louder than anything.

'Is that it? My death?' Yao asked.

'I'm afraid so, _myshka_.' Ivan rested his head on Yao's shoulder. 'Is it not living up to your expectations?'

'Expectations…' Yao said, his voice almost a whisper. 'I guess you could call it that.'

'Hm.' Ivan pried the bag out of Yao's hands. 'Perhaps next time…'

'There's going to be a next time?'

'I can't make any promises.' Ivan hummed, pulling the tubing out of the bag and throwing the bloodied coil into the black bag. He pat Yao on the shoulders. 'Fall to the floor, _myshka._ There's one more thing to do.'

Yao nodded and let himself crumble onto the floor, Ivan's hands guiding him so that he lay on his back.

'You might find this unpleasant, but it has to be done, _da?'_ Ivan knelt by Yao's face, holding the bag over Yao's throat. He tipped the bag over, cold blood pouring over Yao's neck. Yao bit back a yelp, the feeling of it sickening and uncomfortable. He felt his own blood pool beneath him, seeping into his loose hair and soaking the back of his clothes.

'Stay still for a moment.' Ivan stood up to dispose of the bag, now empty and limp, before returning to stand over Yao. Ivan seemed to scrutinize the sight for a moment, of Yao lying in his own blood, as if he were a slightly off center painting.

'Something wrong?' Yao glanced up at Ivan, feeling the blood become sticky on his neck, and wanting to wipe it off.

Ivan sighed, pulling his gloves out of his pockets and slipping them on. 'I don't know what I would really do in a situation like this…'

'What? Killing someone and disposing of the body?' Yao arched a brow, impatience starting to itch at him ever so slightly. He could feel the blood congealing in his hair, staining his scalp and neck.

'Not just anyone, _myshka_. You forget…' Ivan knelt down and picked Yao up, carrying him as if he were a porcelain doll, ready to shatter at the slightest breath of air. Yao, however, did not object. Dead bodies could not simply walk out, after all. It was only reasonable for Ivan to carry Yao out.

_Only reasonable…_

Yao watched as crimson droplets fell and sank into the carpet, dripping from his hair to leave a trail as Ivan slung the black bag over his shoulder. Ivan pressed the door handle down, pulling the door open to let in an icy draft of air.

'Wait.' Yao placed his hand on Ivan's chest to stop him, only for a moment forgetting what he wanted to say when he thought of the heart that beat beneath his hand. 'The… uh… The flowers.' Yao turned his head to indicate towards the broken vase on the floor, wilted white roses having spilt out of them. 'Put the petals where my blood is.'

Ivan blinked at Yao, brows furrowing in question. 'Is that important?'

Yao nodded, hand sliding away from Ivan. 'Very.'

A small smile broke onto Ivan's lips, eyes softening in their gaze in a way that squeezed Yao's heart, the dull ache returning once again. 'As you wish, _ochi chernye_ …'

Yao returned the smile, the dried blood on his throat no longer quite as stifling or as uncomfortable as it was before. His chest felt smaller, tighter as he inhaled, but it was not unpleasant. Perhaps in this fake death of his, something new – something better – could be born out of it. Yao was finally free of the world, completely gone from its grey and stifling face. He could envelop himself completely in this new world he had become part of – a world of crimson ribbons and ice cold hands.

He watched as the petals fell into the dark pool of blood, as they were engulfed in red and no longer white. Somehow, this reminded Yao of his nightmare, of the very first drop of blood trickling down his skin and blooming as it was soaked up by the mattress. It was this same fascination that captivated his eyes, his neck craned to gaze at the curled petals on the bloodied floor, even as the door shut closed behind them.

In the strangest of ways, the sight was not sickening in the least. On the contrary, Yao felt it was oddly dream-like. A beautiful, scarlet dream framed by Ivan's ice cold touch as he carried him through the pitch black night.

_Such a pretty dream…_

Yao could only hope that he would never have to wake up.


	14. Catch My Heart

* * *

 

_Oh, not for nothing are you darker than the deep!_

_I see mourning for my soul in you,_

_I see a triumphant flame in you:_

_A poor heart immolated in it._

 

* * *

A warm puff of breath billowed out into the cold air, Yao watching it fade as he wrapped his arms around his knees tighter. Shivering, he wanted to clutch the parka to himself closer, but it felt that no matter what, the cold would always persevere and pierce through the fabric of his clothes. Ivan, however, was unmoved, almost unaffected by the gusts of hail ridden air. Yao watched Ivan's eyes flutter slightly when the wind picked up, and was reminded once again of how wintry and snow-like Ivan looked. He could lie in the snow and almost fade away without notice, had it not been for his black boots.

Ivan glanced over to Yao, a small smile creeping up on his lips. 'Again, _myshka_?'

Yao snapped his head away, somewhat glad for the rosy warmth that spread across his face, but nonetheless feeling oddly flustered. It should not have been a problem. Many times, Ivan watched Yao, without so much as a blink - so why was it so important that Ivan not see Yao doing the same?

'You don't have to sit out here with me.' Ivan sighed. Through the corner of his eye, Yao saw him turn his head back towards the horizon, to the fenced view of the snow covered field. They had been sitting here for quite a while, feeling almost as if they were waiting for the snow to melt away and give rise to the sunflowers that had been promised. 'I only do this because I have nothing else to do.'

'Then I don't have anything to do either.' Yao said. It was true, if there were no bodies to cut up, no 'night errands' to run, what was else there for either Yao or Ivan to do? Ivan lived to tear away the lives of others, and Yao… What did Yao live for? The ice cold man beside him? Somehow this was a thought that rattled uneasily in Yao's head.

Yao settled his head onto his knees, wishing he had been sat indoors by a warm fire that out here on a frozen over porch. But even so, Yao didn't want to sit alone, especially today.

'You know it's Christmas Eve today, right?' Yao turned his head slightly, relieved to not find Ivan staring right back. It was easier to not have him looking, easier on his chest and his breath. And yet, he still secretly wanted to feel the slight ache of his crushed breath. The pain was unpleasant, but it was also exhilarating – addictive, almost.

'Christmas… I've never really celebrated it.' Ivan turned to Yao, and almost instantly Yao forgot what was so exciting about having his breath shortened. No… it was uncomfortable. He was shivering from the cold, and his breath was giving way. No, this was not comfortable in the least.

'Not even with Katyusha?' His words were shaky, trembling. Excitement or nervousness? Yao wasn't sure.

Ivan shook his head. 'We were always busy scrubbing floors or struggling to keep our boots from falling apart at the orphanage. And now… Katyusha has her own family to spend Christmas with. I do not like to impose on her to spend time with me.'

There was a breath of silence, Ivan's hands fidgeting as if deciding what to do with them. He reached over and took old of Yao's ponytail, twisting it and twirling it in his hand. Yao tensed - though he should have been used to it by now, this recent game Ivan had taken up. The game in which Ivan toyed with Yao's hair as if he were a pet of some sort. And all the while Yao had to pretend he was not bothered in the least by it. But it did bother him, although irritation wasn't exactly the sentiment behind it. As he felt Ivan's hand tug at his hair, words and thoughts became muddled and so difficult to distinguish, as if they were all melting away into a meaningless puddle.

_What's wrong with me?_

'How do you normally spend your Christmas, _myshka_?'

'Um.' Yao shivered, the ice cold wind hitting his exposed neck. 'Alone. Watching TV.' He blurted out, biting his lip back when his own honesty surprised him. Somehow, with Ivan combing through his hair and the tiny flecks of ice landing and melting onto his hands, these words were spoken easily. 'Growing up, my parents were not around often. Things always got in the way. Mostly work. Sometimes I'd visit my cousin Jin but… his parents were worse than mine. So I just stayed home.'

'You didn't have friends?'

'I did… sort of.' Yao nodded, wanting to end it there, but feeling the urge to continue. 'Not really. I-'

_(All I ever had was Jin and that clingy bastard Yong Soo)_

'I just never felt close with… anyone.'

Ivan hand smoothed over the lock of hair and let it tumble loosely over Yao's shoulder. 'Do you still feel like that, _myshka?'_

'No…' Yao shook his head, now itching for Ivan's hand to caress his hair again, even though the feeling of uneasiness was still vivid and fresh in his mind. He glanced to Ivan, almost hearing the words in his head as if they were spoken out loud.

_(It's nice having friends... Isn't it, myshka?)_

But no words were spoken. Ivan only watched Yao intently, thoughtfully as he always did. Yao could only stare back, if only for a short and excruciatingly flustered moment, before retreating his gaze to the snow covered ground. Unable to keep his own gaze steady, Yao wondered why this was the case.

It must have been fear, or remnants of it. Old shreds of anxieties, left over from the summer nights when Ivan's blood coated hands terrified him. Looking at Ivan's pale face, surely Yao was reminded of this, and unsettled by the memory. But why was it that he could only see Ivan, and not the beast Yao was once sure existed beneath the lilac eyes and sweet voice?

_It's still there, isn't it? The monster…_

Monster or broken angel? Yao felt uncertainty once again, every feeling and thought suddenly not so clear cut.

'Let's go back in.' Ivan pat Yao's shoulder. 'It's cold out here, _da?'_

For Ivan, who was always blanketed by the cold, it felt odd to hear him say this. Yao, however, only nodded and stood up from the porch steps, holding back the hesitant smile that wanted to spread across his lips.

* * *

Arthur flipped the newspaper open, turning the pages and searching the bold headlines, muttering a curse when a gust of air violently slapped the pages in the opposite direction. He skimmed its contents, looking for particular words - perhaps even images - but seeing none. Nothing, only sickly sweet sentiments of reunited families and rescued puppies. It  _was_ Christmas Eve, after all... so what had he been expecting, really?

Setting the newspaper back onto the rack, his hand reached for another, only for someone to tap his shoulder rather forcefully. He whipped his head around, wary of what stranger would be bothering him today in this god forsaken place.

'So you still haven't left the country, huh?' Alfred said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

'Oh. Hello, er… Al…fred.' Arthur said, vaguely remembering the haze of whisky in his veins and the way in which he had so willingly agreed to call him 'Al'. That was, however, not something that rolled off Arthur's tongue easily.

Alfred chuckled, and for the first time, Arthur felt his mind was ever so slightly transparent for him to see. It was in this unsettling feeling of exposure that Arthur brought his cane to the front and stabbed it into the pavement.

'Well. It was lovely seeing you again… Alfred. But I have places to go and things to do, so if you don't mind,' Arthur offered a polite smile and turned to leave. 'I'll be going. Short and sweet, I know, but what can I do-'

'Hold up.' Alfred grabbed his arm. 'You can't just leave.'

'Why not?'

'You're not on vacation here, Arthur.' He tightened his grip as Arthur tried to slowly pull away. 'The killer's still out there, and you just decided to disappear for two months-'

'One month and three weeks, actually.' Arthur tried to pry Alfred's hand off finger by finger, but the man still held on, hand biting into him like jaws. 'And I _was_ working. Just not in your presence.'

'Well, you weren't consulting me and Kiku about it. That's what you got called in for, isn't it?' Alfred stepped closer, his gaze not hesitating in the way Arthur had expected. 'Why'd you leave?'

'I had… personal matters to tend to.' Arthur said, a moment of silence falling between them. It wasn't a lie exactly… it was more so a guess on Arthur's part. He had presumed it was boredom - of the case, of Alfred, of this whole place. But oddly enough, he couldn't bring himself to leave. He still checked the newspapers for possible updates on the case, and the sight of Alfred's determined expression still amused him.

A lie to Alfred, no. A lie to himself… perhaps.

Alfred's hold on Arthur wavered, his grip loosening slightly as strangers passing by gave curious looks.

'Okay, well… I don't really care about your personal matters right now.' Alfred said, still tentatively holding on as if Arthur might make a run for it. 'I still need your help with the case.'

'I thought you had a lead.'

'I did…' Alfred glanced around uneasily. 'Look, uh... Let's talk somewhere else. This isn't really something you can talk about out here.'

'Why?' Arthur arched a brow. 'Are you trying to lure me somewhere?'

Alfred frowned. 'What? Lure you?'

'Picking strays up off the street is your specialty, isn't it?' Arthur smiled wryly. 'Alright. I'll follow. Where are you taking me?'

* * *

'Tell me, Linda.' Alfred spread the photos across the table. 'Any of these faces familiar to you?'

Linda did not even glance at the photos, crossing her arms and icily locking her eyes onto Alfred's. 'No. You've already asked me this.'

Alfred lifted up the first photo to Linda's face, watching her expression. 'Did you know him?'

Her face remained stony and blank, not even offering the courtesy of a nod or a shake. Alfred picked up the next photo, showed it to her and watched. Another photo. Nothing. Each and every face he showed to her was received with only an emotionless glare and nothing more.

'How about this guy?' Alfred lifted up another photo. 'Dr. Rothaugen?'

She pursed her lips. Her eyes stayed fixed and steady, but her mouth had given way, if only for a split second.

Alfred let the photo linger in front of her for a little longer. There was something there, he had seen it. He pulled back a chair and sat. 'We know you were a Glen Hills patient, Linda. We saw your file in their records.'

Linda shifted in her posture, crossing her legs in the chair that many suspects before her had sat. Just another egg to crack, to break down in the way that Kiku had often politely warned Alfred not to. But sometimes it was needed, just a little bit of tactless pressure…

The door clicked open. 'I apologize for making you wait, Ms. Sterling.' Kiku shut the door behind him and placed the paper cup onto the table. 'Here's the water you asked for.'

'Thank you.' Linda sipped the water.

Kiku took his seat next to Alfred, muttering an apology to him as well. He looked to Alfred, signaling for him to continue. Alfred nodded and turned to Linda.

'As I was saying, Linda, we know you were a Glen Hills patient. We also know that most of the men and women who've disappeared recently were previously Glen Hills staff.'

It was a flimsy case for suspecting Linda. Alfred knew that. The DNA samples didn't match, nor did the descriptions – but this was the closest they had gotten to a suspect as of yet. Alfred was not letting this woman hold back one shred of information from him.

'Ms. Sterling,' Kiku said, perhaps noting the direction Alfred was trying to take this interrogation in and trying to salvage it in his own orderly way. 'Can you think of any reason of why someone would do this? Anyone in particular who might be behind this?'

Linda blinked, features softening slightly. 'No… I can't think of anyone. But I'm not surprised this has happened.' She looked down at the photos, frowning. 'They were ugly people. Disgusting people.'

'So you knew them?' Alfred asked.

Linda exhaled, hesitating before shaking her head. 'Only some…' She pointed to the photo in the middle, of Dr. Rothaugen. 'This pig – he deserved it.'

Alfred was ready to pounce on that statement, but Kiku was faster.

'Why's that?'

'You don't know?' Linda looked up, irritation lacing her voice. 'That hell hole was made for people like him. Pedophiles. Perverts. It took the police long enough to put a stop to it.' She slid her hand across the table, collecting the photos up in a pile and pushing them back towards Alfred. 'I was fifteen when I finally got out. You want to know the first thing they told me when I did? Told me that my name was Linda, and that they were going to put me in a rehabilitation center.' She chuckled. 'They wanted me to go through it all over again.'

'I'm sorry, what do you mean they 'told you' your name is Linda?' Alfred frowned. 'Isn't that-'

'My name's not Linda.' She looked at them questioningly. 'Don't you have that on the files, or wherever you're getting your information from? I'm not Linda.'

'Who are you, then?' Kiku asked.

'Natalya.'

'Natalya what?'

Linda furrowed her brows. 'Just… Just Natalya. D-Don't you have that…' She peered over to the files on Alfred and Kiku's side of the table. 'Don't you have a record of that? My name and… where I came from…'

'We have a Linda Sterling here.' Kiku said. 'It's possible they put you under her name, so they wouldn't have to record the real Linda Sterling's death.'

'N-No, that can't be right.' Linda shook her head, combing her hand through her hair. 'I'm Natalya. Not Linda. Natalya. Linda's just… just a mistake. I gladly took it, but I was always Natalya… always… Natalya…' Her voice trailed off as her hand continued to comb through her long hair, leaving the strands to fall back onto her shoulders slowly.

'Ms. Sterling?' Kiku said. 'Are you alright? We can stop here-'

'I'm not Linda!' She snapped her eyes up fiercely. 'I'm… Natalya. Don't forget that. Don't call me by any other name, don't fucking tell me I'm someone else!'

'Please calm down, we're only trying to understand-'

'How can you not know? Why isn't it on there?' She stood up from her seat, the chair screeching across the floor. 'Why aren't I on there? Where's my name? Where is it?' She banged her hands onto the table. 'Where's Natalya?'

'Sit down.' Alfred said.

'Do you know what they did to me? Do you know how many fucking needles they stuck into me? How many times they strapped me to the bed and let me starve? That was Natalya they did this to, Natalya that got bruised and kicked and – and –' She swallowed, hand shaking as she pointed to the file in Alfred's hands. 'And they don't even have my fucking name down?'

'Natalya, sit down.' Alfred seethed, standing up from his chair.

'You're lying. You're lying, aren't you?' She shrieked. 'Of course my name's on there! Of course it is! Little Natalya and all the different sounds we can squeeze out of her little neck!'

Alfred and Kiku hurried over to her side of the table, taking hold of her thrashing arms.

'There are so many, you know? So many different kinds of pain and so many kinds of screams, they wrote them all down! Tell me I'm not just making this up! Tell me it's written on there!'

'Please calm down!' Kiku said, aiding Alfred in pushing her shoulders down so that she sat in the chair.

'Please…' Natalya croaked out, slumping forward in the chair, her back shaking from quiet sobs. 'It really did happen… I…I'm not making this up…'

'We know.' Alfred said, pulling his hands away from her shoulder. He glanced to Kiku, finding his brows furrowed in concern. 'We know you're not lying, Natalya.'

'Ivan will tell you, won't he?' Natalya said, her voice barely a whisper. 'He'll tell you… what they did…'

* * *

'Ivan?' Arthur leant forward in his seat, arms crossed over on the table. 'And I suppose you checked for his record?'

Alfred nodded, setting his coffee down. 'We checked the records for either an Ivan or a Natalya. Neither came up.'

'I see.' Arthur's eyes trailed to the window, watching the snow fall onto the busy pavement with feigned interest. Curious, Alfred studied his face, the way Arthur's green irises flickered and thick brows furrowed slightly. Not quite the same, not quite as confident as before… No, something was different about him. More hesitance than cocky arrogance, more sheep than wolf in his demeanor.

_What's happened while he's been away?_

'But do you really think that it's these two you should be chasing?' Arthur turned his gaze back to Alfred, almost startling him.

'N-No.' Alfred said. 'No, they're just… One step closer, I guess.'

'Hm.' Arthur took a sip of his tea, smacking his lips in distaste as he set back down. 'Bloody awful tea… I'm sure the waitress spat in it.'

'I wouldn't be surprised.' Alfred said. 'You sent it back three times.'

'Well.' Arthur slid the tea cup further away. 'It's not my fault they can't brew a proper cup of tea. How's your coffee?'

'Fine.'

'Let me try some.'

'No.' Alfred pulled his drink closer, now cooling to a lukewarm in the way his coffee always did before he could manage to finish it. 'Look, just… I wanted you to hear your thoughts on the case. Not share my coffee with you.'

Arthur let out a small exhale, settling his hands back into a folded position and eyeing the file by Alfred's hands. 'Alright, then. Tell me.'

'Tell you what?'

'The latest kill, the most recent mangled body they've left for you. What has our boy done since I've been away?'

'Well… not much, actually.' Alfred slid the file forward. 'There was a woman found a little more than a month ago. Flora Garrison. Formerly a nurse at Glen Hills.'

'Let's see.' Arthur pulled the file closer and opened it, leafing through it with perhaps the slightest bit of child-like enthusiasm, one that Alfred would pretend he had not seen. Holding up the photo of the dead woman's corpse, Arthur frowned.

'I'm disappointed…There's not much to work with, is there? Only a slit of the throat?' A pause, as his hand hovered over the next photo. 'Oh, hello… what's this, Alfred?' He looked up to Alfred, eyes glazed with over curiosity.

'You tell me.'

'It's someone else's blood, isn't it?' Arthur held the photo close, peering into it. 'Two victims in one night. An unexpected witness, perhaps?'

'The blood wasn't Flora Garrison's.' Alfred said. 'But it was a DNA match for the hair we found on Neil Bowman.'

Arthur blinked, setting the photo down. 'So that was him then… our boy.' He looked up at Alfred, looking almost dazed. A frown settled upon his brows, turning his head back to the photos, flipping through them furiously. Arthur chuckled.

'What is it?'

'Oh, it's just…' Another chuckle. 'I'm not sure what to believe…' He picked up the photo of the pool of blood, curled and blackened petals scattered across it. 'That our boy really did get butchered… or if he's looking for a way out. I thought he was rather enjoying this.'

'What do you mean?' Alfred leaned forward. 'You think it's been faked, too?'

'Faked?' Arthur smiled wryly. 'Alfred, you almost got there faster than I did. I'm impressed.'

Alfred said nothing, unsure if the man was teasing him, or if he genuinely meant it. Perhaps able to perceive this, Arthur laughed.

'The way I look at it, there are two versions of events. Version one, we believe what this woman said in that 911 call, according to this transcript…' Arthur picked up a page from the folder. 'That the two killers entered her apartment, had an argument of sorts, and our poor boy got stabbed to death.'

'By his partner?' Alfred asked. 'Why?'

Arthur smiled and shrugged. 'A multitude of reasons… The petals tell me it was a lover's quarrel, perhaps one the killer felt remorse for.' He glanced up at Alfred. 'When two lovers commit a crime as treacherous as murder, they're bound for life. Neither can escape, neither can speak a word of their actions to anyone but each other. Trust,' Arthur set the paper down. 'Is no longer a luxury. It's something they've got to hold on to, all the way to the grave. And when one of them wants out…' Arthur leaned forward in his seat. 'That's when their bloody fairytale ends.'

'So you think one of them was going to turn themselves in?'

'Oh, no…' Arthur chuckled. 'No, nothing drastic like that. Perhaps one of them got paranoid. Maybe our boy was a little too creative, having too much fun with the victims. The stakes were a little too high for their liking…'Arthur straightened the papers and photos on the table, taking another look at the photo of the petal strewn bloodstain. 'Anyway, that's the first version.'

'And the second?'

'The second…' Arthur exhaled. 'The second one is troublesome. A death like this can be easily faked. And frankly, given the circumstances, I find it hard to believe our killers would turn on each other so easily. Let alone in front of a victim. So personally, I buy the second version.'

'What's the issue with it, then?'

'The issue, Alfred,' Arthur lifted his cup of tea to his lips, although why he was still drinking it Alfred wasn't sure. Just as Arthur put the cup to his lips, a passing by waitress bumped into his shoulder, knocking him and causing the tea to slosh over the rim.

'Oh, bugger me!' Arthur set the cup down and turned to the waitress.

'I'm so sorry!' The waitress threw napkins over the spilt tea, continuing to apologize as she tried to salvage the soaked papers. She wiped away at the photo of the dead woman and gasped.

'It's fine, we'll take it from here.' Alfred reached over to take the napkins from her trembling hand.

'O-Okay.' The waitress nodded vigorously, swiftly leaving with a terrified expression on her face. Arthur glanced at Alfred.

'Don't you think you should have told her you're with the police?'

Alfred dabbed the papers. 'I come here often enough. They know.' He set the tea soaked napkins to the side, the sight of the stained papers catching his eye. As the pages crinkled slightly, darkened by the tea, Alfred was reminded of the Glen Hills records and the similar state he had found them in. The thought that someone had been through the records prior to Alfred and Kiku resurfaced, and as he looked up to Arthur, something clicked.

_You knew._

'Something the matter?' Arthur asked.

'No.' Alfred said, collecting the damp papers together. 'You were, uh… You were saying? About the issue with the second version of events?'

'Ah, yes.' Arthur sat back hands clamped together and resting on the table. 'As I was saying, the issue is with the motive...'

Alfred watched as the man continued to speak, green eyes darting and flickering as they always did, as if catching on to every micro movement of Alfred's face. But, preoccupied with his own ramblings, Arthur did not seem to catch onto Arthur's thoughts, the questions that were starting to form in his mind.

_You knew about Linda._

Alfred had been so sure that Arthur had become tamer, more hesitant in some way - but the man was still playing games with him! Still toying with Alfred and leading the way at the same time, as if he were guiding a mouse through a maze but not telling him of the traps along the way. Still cocky, still arrogant… still the man that infuriated Alfred.

_'_ _There's a long goodbye…and it happens every day.'_

Perhaps Arthur had not changed at all since he last saw him.

_'_ _When some passerby, invites your eye to come his way.'_

Alfred blinked, the sudden crooning in Arthur's voice jolting him out of his thoughts. He frowned. 'What are you doing?'

'Ah, so you are listening.' Arthur smiled. 'At least… you're listening now. Want to hear more?'

'More of what?' Alfred said. 'What about the second version you were talking about? The, uh… motivations?'

'Oh, I got bored of that! You did, too, I saw it.' Arthur rested his chin on one hand. 'You tuned out and went somewhere far, far away…'

 _Not that far._ Alfred thought, wondering if Arthur had even the slightest inkling of what he had been thinking about. Perhaps he did and was toying with him right now, feigning innocence and singing obscure songs. Alfred could not let his mind rest easy in his presence, and perhaps he never would.

 _'_ _Even as he smiles a quick hello, you've let him go. You let the moment fly.'_ Arthur's voice lowered to a hum, eyes locked onto Alfred as he made gliding hand gestures in the air.

'Stop it.' Alfred said, wary of curious glances from other tables.

 _'_ _Too late, you turn your head,'_ Arthur continued to sing, all the while his smile widening. _'You know you've said… the long goodbye.'_

'You done?'

Arthur bowed his head and tipped what Alfred could only assume was his imaginary top hat. 'Thank you.'

'Don't thank me. Apologize.'

'For what?' Arthur lifted his head, a dry smile still plastered across his lips. 'I did you a service.'

'You've got other services that you're neglecting.' Alfred said, straightening the papers and photos and placing them into the folder. 'Like catching serial killers. And telling me whether or not this guy's actually dead or not.'

'Oh, he's very much alive. I'm sure of that.' Arthur said. 'It's finding him that you should be worried about. I very much doubt he'll be leaving us bodies and hair samples from now on.'

'Right.' Alfred sighed, fishing out coins from his pocket and putting them on the table. 'Well. I gotta go. Show up at the office now and then, will you? I don't want to have to go searching for you again. And Kiku would like to see you, too.'

'I'm flattered.'

'Yeah, don't think too much of it.' Alfred got up, slipping his coat on. He picked up the folder and turned to leave the coffee shop. His hand was on the ice cold door handle when Arthur called out to him.

'Ah, Alfred!'

'Yeah?' Alfred stopped and turned back to Arthur.

'Poisoned Apple. At eight.'

Alfred frowned. 'What? Why?'

'It's Christmas Eve.' Arthur shrugged. 'I was going to have a drink by myself anyway, so I thought to extend the invitation. You're not working, are you?' He smiled dryly, likely because he was all too aware that Alfred had indeed planned on working tonight.

'No...' Alfred said, although he wasn't exactly sure why he was bothering to lie. He let go of the door handle and approached the table. 'But that place is seedy as hell. Have you been there before?'

'I've heard recommendations.'

Alfred raised a brow. 'Really.'

'Look. Just come, alright?' Arthur said. 'Indulge me for once. I'm not just any old street dog, you know?'

'What?' Alfred frowned. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Don't worry about it.' Arthur waved his hand dismissively. 'You coming or not?'

'Yeah, sure, whatever…' Alfred sighed and turned back for the door. 'Can't make any promises, though.' He opened the door and felt a gust of icy air sting his face.

'Good enough for me. So until then,' Arthur called out. 'Goodb-'

Alfred let the door shut behind him. He walked out onto the frosty pavement and shoved his hands into his pockets, the folder under his arm. A tune lingered on his lips as he walked through the crowds, the words playing out over and over in his head. How did the song go again?

_There's a long goodbye…_

Alfred glanced over at passing by faces, vacant and listless expressions he would never see again. He wondered if any one of them could be the beast he was looking for, hiding in sheep's clothing the way Arthur did. If perhaps they too, knew him better than he knew them.

_...And it happens every day…_

Why Alfred had been unable to free himself of this song, of those words ringing in Arthur's voice, he did not know. He could only mutter a curse under his breath and give himself in to the softly singing voice in his head, saying his goodbyes to every fleeting stranger that came his way.

* * *

Yao felt his throat burn, as if fire had ripped it up from the inside. He coughed and gagged, setting the vodka flask down onto the floor with a grimace on his face. Ivan chuckled.

'You get used to it, _myshka_. Before you know it, you'll be drinking it like water.'

'I doubt that.' Yao wiped his mouth, the bitter taste still stinging his tongue and his throat feeling raw. Even so, he felt as if it had woken him up somehow, warmed him up from the frozen pile of nerves he had been before.

The room was cold and bleak looking, drafts of icy air leaking through the boarded up windows. Empty, the only warmth this room was given was the crackling fireplace, around which Yao and Ivan sat on the rough wooden floor. It was a miserable looking living room, but staring into the fire, Yao could not say he felt miserable. Perhaps it was the warmth, or the way that the silence did not bother him in the least. And yet, of the many warm and silent Christmas Eve's Yao previously had with his family, none of them could quite match up to this, even with the room dusty and empty as it was.

Yao glanced to Ivan, expecting to lilac eyes to be staring right at him. Only when he did, he found Ivan's eyes lost in the flames, expression drawn as if viewing some other sight entirely. Wanting to see this sight, to understand the feeling behind this look in Ivan's eyes, Yao watched. He let himself become absorbed in the way the light played on Ivan's pale features, the warmth illuminating them, only for Yao to forget his breath for a moment. He had lost it and could not snatch it back, chest tightening in that horribly familiar way. Yao gave up on retrieving his breath and let himself spiral into the dizzying haze that began to cloud over his vision.

_Only a breath…I won't miss it._

But the breaths continued to be stolen away, and it was no longer bearable. His hand reached for the vodka flask, wanting to do something to break the cycle. He unscrewed the cap and gulped down the vodka, feeling the urge to spit it back out but choosing not to. It would wake him up, snap him out of this ridiculous trance that he kept falling into. He felt his entire chest burn as the vodka made its way down, and exhaled in relief.

'Already liking it?'

Yao looked up from the flask, Ivan smiling at him. He nodded, blinking as the vodka seemed to sting his eyes as well as his throat. 'Sort of.'

'That's good.' Ivan hummed. 'It's nice sharing, isn't it?'

Yao offered a small smile, turning back to the fire. As his watery eyes met the bright flames, he frowned. Tangled and coiled, the flames seemed much brighter than before. Closer than before. Had Yao moved? He was sure he was still sat in the same spot. He blinked away the tears in his eyes and hoped they would not spill. It was warmer, too, than it was before. The radiating heat from the crackling and crumbling embers seemed to reach further through Yao's skin, melting him down like he was made of wax.

He glanced back at Ivan, oddly concerned that the fire would melt him away, too. Ivan's eyes met his, a gentle smile gracing his lips briefly. The smile was a short-lived one, flickering uneasily like a flame. Something was eating away, burrowing in Ivan's mind. What was it? Why was his smile so weak? Yao felt his brows crease together, the questions unsettling him as they swam around in his dizzy head.

'You look worried, _myshka._ '

'Yeah…' Yao said, the words having left without thought. Yao shook his head, mouth suddenly feeling dry. 'Um. It's nothing.' He averted his eyes to the vodka flask, throat itching for the fiery liquid again. A different pain, perhaps, to ease the aching wound in his chest. A distraction…

_Yes, a distraction would be good…_

Without further hesitation, the vodka was pouring down his throat again, tearing through it and leaving behind it blazed trails. It was nicer this time, smoother and more inviting as it traveled down his throat and through his chest. Bleeding into his veins, Yao felt everything sway ever so slightly, a drowsiness settling in.

He turned to Ivan, finding his expression surprised. A smile tugged at Yao's lips, the sight of Ivan's face causing a laughter to bubble up from his throat, ringing out in the empty room.

'What are you looking at?' Yao said, heat flaring out across his face, finding himself unable to stop laughing.

Ivan broke out into a chuckle. 'Nothing, just… I have not seen you laugh like this before.'

'Hm!' Yao giggled. 'Neither have I!' His head lolled over to the side, the room turning with it in sickening motions. Was it still aching? He put his hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating wildly. Yes, yes, it still was. Still hurting, and even though Ivan was smiling, this pain would not go away. Why was that? Why was that?

_Why…_

Unable to answer the question, Yao lifted the vodka flask up once again, downing the very last of it. He shook it to get every final drop, and he could see Ivan frown in the corner of his eye. The burning liquid trickled down his tongue, only it didn't sting enough. Yao wanted more, but there was none left. He dropped the flask to the floor and let his head drop down, wanting to fall to the floor and crumble.

He felt Ivan's hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. The gesture was so small, so careful and tender. It hurt.

Why was that again?

' _Myshka_ , perhaps you drank a little too fast…' Ivan's hand was smoothing over his shoulder now, petting him as if he were a bird that had broken its wings. Yao chuckled at this thought, finding that maybe he really wasn't all too different from a broken bird. Trapped, made dependent to these cold hands… Had Yao chosen this? He could have ended it long ago, and so perhaps he did choose this golden cage of his.

He lifted his head up, finding Ivan's face close – too close. He could feel his breath linger on his face, warm despite the frostiness of his hands. Yao reached for his pale face, trailing his fingers over the ghostly white skin, gliding over the ice and melting it away. Almost delicate, almost fragile.

Ivan smiled, still wearing that broken smile that seemed to burrow deeper into the hole in Yao's chest. _'Ochi chernye…_ '

Yao slid his hand down to Ivan's shoulder, the room still swinging from side to side unsteadily. The blood in his veins still burning and the aching hole in his chest still feeling hollower by the second. He needed something to hold on to, because even as the cold wooden floor remained solid beneath him, he felt something begin to swallow him up, envelop him in something dark and viscous. He tightened his grip on Ivan, not wanting to fall.

'You don't have to hold on so tightly, _myshka_.' Ivan placed his hand on Yao's, gently prying it away. But Yao only felt panic rising in his throat, dreading having to let go. He persisted in his grip, leaning his head on Ivan's chest. Shutting his eyes, this seemed to ease the dizziness slightly. But still, as he sighed deeply, it seemed he was too close… and yet not close enough.

Yao's hand reached for the scarf, grasping onto the edge of the fabric by Ivan's throat. 'I tried to kill you once…' Yao mumbled, head still against Ivan's chest and listening to the gentle thud beneath the coat. Still there, when in some other world it might not have been. Beating wearily, like the labored pulse of a beast.

Ivan pulled Yao's hand away from the scarf, keeping it in his own cold grasp instead. 'I know.'

'But I couldn't do it.' Yao said, his hand shifting and turning in Ivan's grip, wanting to reach for the scarf again. But Ivan would not let him, icy fingers coiling around his wrist, biting into him a little more strongly when Yao persisted. Why was Ivan fighting him?

'Let me.' Yao hummed, his words drawling out of him uncontrollably. He lifted his head up drowsily, opening his eyes to see Ivan's. He reached with his other hand, tugging at the scarf and trying to pull it loose. Ivan took hold of this hand as well, locking it in a frozen grip.

'Don't, _myshka_.'

Yao frowned, relaxing his hands so that they hung limply in Ivan's hold. 'Why not?'

'You won't like what you see.'

'That's what you always say!' Yao felt a weak chuckle bubble out of him, feeling so small, so tiny in this world that seemed to be tumbling around him. 'I'm tired of hearing _excuses_ …' Yao pulled a hand away and prodded Ivan's chest, his words starting to blend together as he spoke them. 'It's not a pretty story, _myshka._ You don't want to hear it, _myshka_. It's not something to discuss at the table… _myshka._ '

A breath of silence, of Ivan's calm mask gazing at him. But Yao would not avert his gaze this time, not with the vodka in his veins encouraging him, enticing him to stare back.

'Perhaps you should go to bed, _mysh-'_

'Don't even say it!' Yao snapped, his wrist still shackled by Ivan's icy grip as he struggled to pull it away. Like chains, holding on to him and coiling around him with every panicked breath Yao took. 'Don't…'

Yao yanked his hand away, pulling himself up to his feet, swaying slightly as he did so. He felt so heavy, as if he were balancing the world on his head. He looked to Ivan, still seated on the floor and gazing with his brows furrowed. Only mildly concerned, only inconvenienced slightly… is that how it was?

Then, as if the vodka had been pouring down his throat once again, he felt a fire spread and blaze throughout his chest. Crumbling, cracking and breaking into dusty charcoal like the logs in the fireplace. Yao felt sick, wanting to curl up and cave in on himself, but his legs took him elsewhere as if of their own accord.

He stumbled out of the living room, the floor rougher than it was before as his bare feet padded across it. He stopped at the main entrance and grabbed his coat, yanking off the car keys from the little hook on the wall. He opened the front door, a biting gust of air bursting into the hallway and piercing through his thin layer of clothes.

He stepped out, pressing his foot into the glittering snow and wincing as the cold stung him. Yao wasn't entirely sure why he was doing this, he only knew that he couldn't stay in this house any longer. He couldn't take this hollow pain in his chest any longer. He had endured it for long enough, and only wanted something –anything – to alleviate it.

'Yao!' A hand clamped onto his shoulder. Yao didn't even turn around, didn't even think of how panic had laced Ivan's words in a way it hadn't heard before.

'Don't even bother looking for me!' Yao hissed back, shaking Ivan's hand off with such force that he stumbled into the snow covered ground. His hands and knees scraped against the ground, snow around them melting and soaking into his clothes. Yao pulled himself up and ran for the pickup truck, yanking the car door open and throwing himself in. Frantically he started up the engine, locking the doors and windows before Ivan could get to him.

Yao's hands trembled as the gripped the steering wheel, chest tightening as he struggled to drown out Ivan's voice beyond the frosty window. And as he backed the car out onto the dirt road and drove off, he didn't give so much as a glance to the rearview mirror, looking only to the pitch black road ahead.

* * *

Yao snapped his eyes open, swerving sharply as the car leaned dangerously close to the edge of the road. Lights nearly blinded him, bursting in his eyes as he drove by them. He noted the cars cutting ahead of him and picked up his speed, wondering how long he had been asleep. On a road like this, he could have easily crashed. Yao wanted to stop somewhere, to let his eyes close as drowsiness weighed him down. He eyed the clock on the dashboard. It was only ten o'clock, and yet somehow Yao felt he had been driving around aimlessly for longer than this.

Signs flew overhead, names of motorways becoming a blurred haze in Yao's mind as he glanced over to them. The headlights of cars on the other side of the road flared out and melded together with highway lights, a yellow tinted glare masking Yao's vision and stabbing his aching head. Yao groaned, the vodka in his blood thinning out and leaving behind only a sickening feeling in his stomach, in his head and chest. He pulled the car over to the side of the road, not caring for the blaring honks of passing by cars.

He switched off the engine, letting his head fall back limply onto the seat. Cold air seeped in through the cracks between the windows, and without the car's heating on, it wouldn't take long for the whole car to become an icebox. But he couldn't bring himself to switch the engine back on, nor even summon up the energy to care. It was too stuffy in here, anyway, too stifling and too cozy. Too comfortable, almost.

Yao opened the car door and stepped out, inhaling sharply as his bare feet hit the icy ground. It made his skin feel raw as he walked, and this eased Yao's mind slightly. This was better, to feel the flecks of hail bite his skin and melt into his hair. He rolled up the sleeves of his parka, extending his arms out to let the cold spread over them as well.

That all there was, skin that stung. And this… this hurt less than whatever he had felt before.

The wind picked up, pushing against Yao and causing him to stumble like the hollow porcelain doll that he was. Just a toy, that's what he had become since that July night. So why should Ivan answer his stupid questions? Yao was a fool – a drunken fool – to even think to ask. He had been reckless, and that was all there was to it.

_A silly mistake…_

Yao would not bother with the questions anymore. Ivan did not want to answer them, and that was that. Yao would not bother with the pain anymore either. The hole in his chest, burrowed by the invisible snake that plagued him, was here to stay.

_I'm just breathing here…_

Just breathing - that was all Yao would do, all he ever had been doing anyway since he killed the scar faced man. He inhaled the icy air, his fingertips going numb. Numb… that was a nice feeling. Or rather, it didn't feel like anything. But that in itself made it feel so good to Yao.

 _Remember when these hands felt crimson red…?_ A voice whispered by his ear. Perhaps it was the wind… or was it his own?

But yes… that crimson red.

_It was beautiful, wasn't it?_

Yao felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips, remembering the way the spider lilies hung from the dead woman's hair. The way her heart lay scorched, shriveled and black. How it had felt in his hands as he arranged it. It was so heavy, her heart. Yao did not realize until he ripped it out of her, how much a heart weighed, how much of a burden it truly was to carry it inside of you.

_Did you get it, Ivan? Did you understand what I was trying to say to you?_

Yao felt his knees weaken, crumbling to the ground. The ice beneath him sticking onto his skin, pricking it and letting warmth seep out. It was getting so cold… but it was getting less painful, too.

The scent of honeysuckle lingered, mingled with the frosty air and caressing his face. It was a sweet and familiar fragrance, only something was missing from it. What was it? What was missing?

_Blood, of course…_

Yes, that's what it was, that nostalgic metallic taste of it. How much Yao missed this flavor… he could almost taste it now.

The wind coursed past him more violently, yanking his black parka open and leaving it fluttering in the air. Yao gasped, instinctively pulling the parka to close around him, when a red card peeking out from one of the inner pockets caught his gaze.

He pulled it out, barely able to read the letters on it. He lifted it up so that it faced one of the distant streetlights, squinting to read it better. But all he could see was a faint gold scribble, unable to make out the letters. Giving up, he dropped his hand to the snow covered ground, card still in his grasp.

The snow was soaking up everything that was left of Yao, taking his warmth, the ache in his chest, the barely coherent thoughts that roamed in his head. Until eventually, it took his vision, too. The streetlights faded away, flickering out like cooling embers.

 _Catch my heart, before the wind takes it away…_ Yao wanted to say, his mouth too weak to speak these words. Although to who he wanted to say this to, Yao wasn't sure.

'Catch…' He managed to whisper, before a silent darkness swallowed him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem excerpt at the beginning is from an English translation of a Russian poem titled 'Ochi Chernye' or 'Dark Eyes', by Yevhen Hrebinka.


	15. Ruined

Jin winced as the tiny blades snipped, a pinprick of blood forming on the nailbed of his little finger. He always cut too close, too forcefully, and ended up with tiny red scabs on his fingers. But it had to be done, his nails had to be cut short and neat. Even with a bit of blood on his hands, Jin felt cleaner this way. Presentable, so that his image could match this palace of a place he had built.

He polished the scissors with a handkerchief, wiping away the spot of blood on the golden blades. He traced his thumb over the handle, over the ridges and dips that formed the impression of a crane, its golden beak extending into pointed blades. It was just one of the many luxuries he'd come to appreciate in the last few months, although Jin feared he was perhaps getting too used to it. He worried that once he had the taste of extravagance he would be unable to live without it.

_But I've earned it… haven't I?_

Jin lay the scissors onto the dark mahogany desk. He had most certainly earned it - there should not have been any doubt about that. Every piece of furniture, every casino chip and escort, was his because of his own diligent efforts. He had built a beautiful temple in this rotten city, each pillar with his name on it.

But even so, it was not all his. Jin had debts to pay – who didn't? – before he could really consider the 'Poisoned Apple' his own. Jin had it all settled, all laid down and planned, and so he knew he could get it done. Jin was always good with finances, with management and getting things done efficiently. A few loan repayments should not have been of much concern.

 _And yet…_ Jin thought as he ran his finger over each nailbed, checking he had cut them all smoothly.

It was of great concern.

Jin caught himself picking at the scabs in this fit of nervousness, pulling his hands away from the table and staring into the folding screen that stood on the other end of the office. His eyes lingered over the ornate design, the elegant curves etched into the wood.

Yong Soo had picked it out. It was in surprisingly good taste… perhaps too good. Whilst Jin was always careful with expenses – even when considering luxuries such as golden scissors and mahogany tables - Yong Soo was crudely indulgent with his money. With Jin's money, to be more accurate.

Jin scoffed. _So much for a 'business associate'…_

Yong Soo was little more freeloader than anything else. Really, what had Jin been thinking when he suggested that the two become business partners? Yong Soo should have stayed behind the counter, counting change and occasionally stealing a drink or two. Not guzzling down half their profit on escorts and flashy red convertibles.

The phone rang, its ring irritating him as he reached to pick it up.

'Hello?' He sighed, pulling out his expenses book and opening it up to yesterday's date. Waiting for the caller to respond, he picked up a pen and drew a line underneath the expenses list, writing in the totals and how much of their profit would have to go towards the loan repayment.

'Come on, Yao. Wake up! Ah, fuck…' A voice crackled through, distant and somewhat muffled.

'Hello?' Jin said, punching numbers into the calculator and noting them down. 'Yong Soo?'

'Jin!' Yong Soo said, voice high-strung and panicked. 'Jin, I don't know what to do. He's so cold. He's so fucking cold-'

'Who's cold?'

'Yao! He… He might be gone, Jin…'

Jin's pen stopped still. 'What do you mean? Where are you?'

'Somewhere - I don't know, Jin! I was just driving by and I see him lying here like fucking roadkill and I don't know what I'm going to fucking do -'

'Calm down. Is he in your car?'

'Y-Yeah. He…He's not moving, Jin.'

'Check his pulse.'

Jin heard shuffling on the other end of the line, a pause before Yong Soo's panicked voice broke through.

'I think he's dead, Jin. I can't feel one. He's fucking gone. He's gone…'

'Yong Soo, listen to me.' Jin dropped the pen down. 'Bring him over. You've got the hood closed, right?'

'N-no. But he's dead, shouldn't we call an ambulance or something? Oh god…'

'Yong Soo, listen to me. Close the hood. Get him here as fast as you can. You got that?'

'…Y-Yeah.'

Jin closed the phone, combing his hands over his head with a drawn out exhale. He considered the possibilities, weighing the decisions he may have to make with each one. This was a troublesome ordeal, to say the least. Wherever his cousin had run off to in the past few months, Jin knew it wasn't any place good. From what he'd heard from Yong Soo, and what Jin suspected himself, Yao had gotten himself deep in a place he did not belong, an underworld that he was not built to thrive in. Jin would not be surprised if it ended up killing Yao.

But the one possibility that bothered him the most, the one that seemed to persist at the forefront of his mind, was the possibility that Yao was not dead. It was while he was thinking of this that Jin absentmindedly peeled off an old scab from his index finger, causing him to hiss in pain.

This possibility was indeed troublesome.

* * *

In the midst of the bustling crowd, Alfred tensed. His white shirt stood out like a flag, tinted pink by the red lights that seemed to make the place look all the more like a pit in hell. He had been here several times before, although he had always visited during the daytime when the place had been empty and quiet. But once the sun had set and streetlights flickered on, it seemed that the 'Poisoned Apple' had come to life. Fluorescent lights glimmered, drinks started to pour, and a hazy mist of tobacco settled over the place like a thick blanket.

It was almost overwhelming; Alfred felt as if the 'Poisoned Apple' had swallowed him up, pulsating music and the musty smell of the place stifling him as he pushed through to get to the bar, ignoring curious glances. Perhaps they too knew that Alfred did not belong here. Although he stood taller than most people, he felt incredibly small.

When he finally reached the bar, illuminated a little more brightly than the rest of the place, he caught sight of Arthur. He was slouched over the counter, an empty glass in his hand.

Alfred had not even made it two steps further when the Englishman turned to look at him.

'You're _late_ …' He drawled out, face flushed – perhaps already drunk.

Alfred took the seat next to him, eyeing his watch. 10:15. He was late, although it was no accident. 'Got stuck in traffic.' He lied, but he knew Arthur could see through it easily.

'Hm.' Arthur nodded, his eyes flickering to the collar of Alfred's shirt. 'And you're still wearing the same shirt you wore this morning…'

'Was I supposed to change?' Alfred said. He noticed that Arthur was not wearing his usual black trench coat, but a leather jacket instead, the collar of a deep red shirt peeking out. It made Alfred wonder, who was the wolf trying to lure today? Or perhaps it was just another costume, to blend in with the rest of this crimson place.

Arthur shook his head, a drowsy smile etched on his lips. 'No, I suppose not.' He turned to the bartender behind the counter, lifting his glass up. 'Another one, Leon!'

The bartender glared back, eyes brown and empty in their expression. 'It's not Leon. It's Chun.'

'Fill it up, Leon!' Arthur lifted the glass higher up in the air. The bartender took the glass without another word, glancing over at Alfred curiously. The bartender's eyes flitted down to something behind the counter, presumably a bottle of whatever Arthur had ordered, but the bartender quickly turned around and picked off a bottle from a shelf behind instead. He poured the drink – it looked like whisky – all the while his stony expression lingering back to Alfred.

'Thanks, love.' Arthur took the drink from the bartender, earning a heated glance.

'So now it's love, huh…' The man said, voice barely audible beneath the loud music.

'I'll call you what I like!' Arthur drawled, turning back to look at Alfred with a dry smile and prodding him. 'This man here will tell you! Tell him, Alfred! How I used to call you James…'

Alfred turned to the bartender, opening his mouth to tell him just this, only to be stopped by the cold stare he was met with. _What an odd guy._

The man's eyes flickered, looking over at something beyond Alfred's shoulder. Alfred glanced behind, watching the crowd he had waded through before. The mob split in two, parting to let someone walk through. He caught glimpses of a dark haired man entering, carrying someone in his arms as he hurried through to the stairs in the corner of the bar. There were whispers, concerned and speculating mumbles, before the man was gone, leaving the scene to resume as if nothing had happened.

'What was that about…?' Alfred asked, not to anyone in particular. When he turned around, the bartender was gone. He frowned, looking to Arthur in question.

'You're looking at me as if I just ate him.' Arthur set his glass down, already half empty.

'Did you?' Alfred rested his arm on the counter, realizing he hadn't even the chance to order a drink.

Arthur suppressed a chuckle. 'No… He just left.' He glanced over at Alfred. 'Did you think I was going to eat him?'

Alfred shrugged, caught slightly off guard by Arthur's gaze. It looked unhinged somehow, perhaps uninhibited by the drink in his hand. 'Didn't you once tell me you weren't all that different from them?'

'From the monsters, you mean?' Arthur smiled, a small sigh escaping his lips. 'Yes, I suppose I'm not all that different.'

Arthur swiveled around in his chair, turning so that his entire body was facing Alfred. 'You're wondering when I'm going to snap, aren't you?'

Alfred blinked, suddenly conscious of the distance between them. 'I've considered it.'

Arthur chuckled, his hands reaching down for the cane, propped up against the bar. He held it between his open legs and stabbed it into the floor, idly swaying it left and right like a cat's tail. 'But do you ever think what might happen if I did?'

'I'm hoping you'd turn yourself in.'

'Hm!' Arthur hummed. '…Suppose I didn't.'

'Then I'd have to come after you.'

Arthur leaned forward. 'Suppose I go into hiding.'

'Suppose I found you.' Alfred shot back.

'Suppose I put up a fight.' Arthur inched closer.

'Suppose I pulled out my gun and aimed it at your head.'

'Suppose you didn't shoot.'

Alfred hesitated. He wondered, would he have even pulled out his gun in the first place? Could he shoot Arthur – in fact, could he shoot _anyone_ – if the situation called for it? Part of his job required that he be prepared to do so, but only to injure. Not kill. Arthur knew this too, surely, but Alfred had a feeling that wasn't what he had in mind when he challenged him. As Arthur's eyes bore into him, curiosity brimming at the surface, Alfred felt uncertainty twist and turn in his stomach.

 _Why's that?_ Arthur's expression seemed to ask, his eyes closer than they were before. Music pounded in their ears, but the silence between them felt louder. It grew, this silence, twisted and curled around Alfred so that it started to speak for itself.

_Why is that, Alfred? Why couldn't you shoot me, if you had to…?_

Why was it? Alfred shifted in his seat, a hesitant chuckle breaking into the silence. He didn't know. He didn't know and that was perhaps what bothered him most.

'That's a telling answer, Alfred.'

Alfred's weak smile faded. 'But I didn't say anything.'

'Sometimes, Alfred, it's the things you don't say.' Arthur said, leaning back, his words crisp and clearer than before. Alfred had to wonder if Arthur was only feigning drunkenness a few moments ago, eyeing the half empty whisky glass. 'You know something's good when someone's hiding it. Haven't I told you that?'

Alfred felt his lips purse into a thin line, feeling as if he had exposed too much, in some strange way. 'Yeah. You have.'

Arthur lifted the whisky glass, tilting it at a dangerously slanted angle, so loosely in his hand that it looked as if it could easily slip out. 'Want some?'

'No…I'm fine.'

'Suit yourself!' Arthur gulped down the remaining whisky, setting the glass down abruptly and breaking into a fit of giggles.

Alfred said nothing, letting his gaze trail over the crowd around the bar absent-mindedly. Strangers faces, once again passing by fleetingly. Alfred felt a familiar tune on his lips again, but he did not dare hum it out loud.

* * *

' _He might be gone, Jin… He's not moving…'_

Lights, bursting once again in Yao's eyes. Sounds throbbing in his ears and warmth slowly crawling over his skin. His hand grasped something. It felt like a sleeve.

'Ivan…?' He croaked through frozen lips, but no sound left them. He opened his eyes, met by red lights overhead. Voices barraged him, hissed whispers and distorted faces swarming him. But his eyelids felt so heavy, and like black curtains they swept back over him.

' _Is he breathing? I think he's still breathing…'_

Feeling something solid beneath him, Yao was no longer floating. A hand pressed onto his cheek, shaking him, warm in its touch. But it wasn't cold, and it wasn't Ivan's. Yao furrowed his brows and turned his head away.

' _Yao… Yao, wake up.'_

He felt something wrap around him, so tight around his chest that it made his shallow breath almost lose itself completely. White light spilled into his eyes, the glare of it thrashing his aching head like a hammer. Yao groaned. He wasn't ready, not yet.

_Let me stay here a little while longer…_

'Yao!' A brusque voice rang in his ear. When Yao's eyes adjusted to the light, he found Yong Soo's face hanging over him. There was a moment of silence, of Yao staring at his face and wondering. He felt chuckle rise out of his throat, but it was so weak that it sounded more of a pained exhale than anything else. 'He got you, too?'

'What?' Yong Soo brows creased. 'Yao, what happened to you?'

'Hm?' Yao shuddered, the frost on his numb fingers thawing and leaving them trembling. 'Oh, I… I just th-thought a little walk would be nice!' He giggled, his entire body now shaking. 'It's uh… It's really c-cold in here, isn't it?'

He felt his smile falter as his skin began to sting, feeling raw as the ice that had coated itself over him began to melt. It was with this that Yao suddenly felt emptied out. Like the phantom arm of an amputated shoulder, Yao felt that something should be there, when it wasn't.

Yong Soo opened his mouth to say something, when Jin's voice cut in. 'Yao… I'm not going to ask where you've been, or what you've done.'

 _What I've done…?_ Yao chuckled weakly, waiting for Jin's stern face to enter his frame of vision. _Oh, yes… the things I've done._

Jin approached from the foot of the couch, arms crossed so that his hands were hidden in his sleeves. His steps were slow and deliberate, not too dissimilar from the way someone might approach a wounded animal. When Jin's face was hovering over him, Yao shifted on the couch, trying to break himself out of the blanket that was wrapped around him. It felt more like a net than anything else, trapping him instead of reassuring him.

'And I'm not sure you're even supposed to be here.'

Muddled and thawed out thoughts began to swim more frantically in Yao's head. _Not supposed to be here…?_ Yes, he had certainly felt that, this feeling of misplacement. Almost feeling like a writhing fish out of the water, Yao felt his arms seeking to break out of the net that had caught him. The warm hands clinging onto him, the cold gaze studying his uneasy form on the couch, it was all so incredibly stifling that Yao felt sick to the stomach.

_What am I doing here?_

'It would be in both of our interests if your presence here wasn't noteworthy to anyone.' Jin sat by Yao's legs, which lay tied up and strangled by the blanket. 'But we both know that's wishful thinking.'

'Ease up on him, man.' Yong Soo grasp on Yao's shoulder tightened, causing the sickening feeling in Yao's stomach to rise. 'Your cousin just like, came back from the dead!'

'He's compromising everything I built.' Jin shifted his gaze to Yong Soo.

'Everything _we_ built!' Yong Soo stood up from his crouched position by the couch. 'Dude, this place was a dump before me! A boozed up loser pit! I'm the one who suggested you turn this place up into something more!'

'Is that so?' Jin smiled. 'And what about actually carrying that out? Compiling client lists? Training our escorts? Handling imports from overseas? Did you do all those things, too, Yong Soo?'

Yao scooted up on the couch, sitting upright. Everything shook violently, teeth chattering and numbness fading away to leave behind a dull ache. The pain was back, chest hollowing out as the ice in it melted. But there was nothing he could do, except bear it in silence.

He looked around the room, perhaps searching for something familiar to anchor him in this trembling frenzy. But so much had changed… though it was still Jin's seedy little den, it was now papered over, perfumed and glossed so that it gave the impression of glamour.

It smelled sweet - _is that honeysuckle?_ \- but this did nothing to quell the jittery nervousness that was overtaking him as he listened to Jin and Yong Soo argue back and forth. Like two hunters, two giants towering over him and pulling his tangled net between them. Who would get to eat little Yao up? Who would get the first bite? Yao could only watch.

'You know what, Jin? You won't have to worry about Yao screwing up your pretty little office.' Yong Soo yanked Yao off the couch. Yao nearly tumbled over as the blanket loosened around him. 'So why don't you file your nails or something, and we'll be on our way.'

Jin pursed his lips and stood up. 'That's fine with me.' He walked over to the door and opened it.

A young man was already stood out in the hallway, his dark eyes widening when they met Jin's.

'Chun. What are you doing out there?' Jin asked.

Chun blinked, hesitating. 'I…' He glanced curiously at Yao and Yong Soo. 'That guy you told me to keep an eye out for… he's here.'

'Is he?' Jin raised a brow. His hands fidgeted beneath his sleeves. 'I suppose I'll have to talk to him at some point…' He drew out a sigh, turning to Yong Soo. 'I trust you can show yourselves out whilst I... deal with this?'

'Yeah, yeah. We get it.' Yong Soo put his arm around Yao to support him, using his free hand to wave dismissively at Jin. 'We're leaving this shithole.'

'Good.' Jin said, still holding the door open for them. Chun shifted in his position for a moment, looking between Jin and Yong Soo uneasily before turning to leave.

Yao followed Yong Soo drowsily as he was led out. The door shut behind them with a distorted bang, its echo cluttered by footsteps that followed behind. Yao wondered if it had sounded the same to Yong Soo, and began to think that he had perhaps not recovered, regretting leaving the couch. His legs wobbled with every step, bare feet stumbling over each other as Yong Soo tugged him down the hallway. Suddenly hollow, suddenly distant from everything, it became difficult to judge just how far down the ground was from him.

Yao took a step towards the stairs, only to be pulled back.

'You need a moment, Yao?' Yong Soo asked, his grip biting into Yao's arm. Yao looked to him, brows furrowed. Jin and Chun walked past them, not even offering a glance as they made their way down the stairs. When they were out of earshot, Yong Soo chuckled.

'About time. Alright, let's go.'

'Where're you taking me…?' Yao said, his mouth not quite feeling in synchronization with the words as they were spoken. Nothing matched, and nothing stood still. The world seemed to tumble alongside his footsteps.

'Hm?' Yong Soo snaked his arm around Yao's waist as they approached the stairway. 'Nowhere. We're staying here, man.' He flashed a smile.

'But I thought-' Yao felt the world drop suddenly, only to realize they had taken the first step down the stairs. The second step still trembled. '…I thought we were leaving.'

'Nope!' Yong Soo tugged Yao down the third and fourth steps in one jerk, sending Yao nearly flying down to the fifth. Yong Soo laughed. 'I want to show you the Red Room. It's…uh… it's something, alright. You'll see when we get there. Dude, trust me. You'll like it.'

Yao said nothing, his eyes glued to the shaking ground beneath him and wondering why these steps felt more like clifftops than anything else. He only wanted to get out of here, and so he followed Yong Soo in search of a way out. Anywhere but here, where he felt a strange sort of pulse beating within his head. Yao felt this place was the pit of something he did not want to lose himself in.

When they had reached the bottom of the stairs, Yao was overtaken by the throbbing music and stifling stench of cigarette smoke. So familiar, but so different, overwhelming almost. It was as if the place he had once spent away his afternoons had swollen up and saturated, to the point at which it had become a monstrous exaggeration of what it used to be. Dim lights had been transformed into pulsing red ones. Hazy tobacco smoke had become a thick cloudy curtain. Old drunks had become twisted and hungry men, hands itching on the poker tables.

_But I wonder…_

Would it still be there? The little table at which Ivan had once sat and watched Yao? Or had that too, changed?

Yao choked on the air before he could search for it, guided by Yong Soo's arm to a room hidden away in a dingy corner. Two large men stepped aside for them, closing back in on the entrance to guard it when they had walked through.

Curtains drew behind them, in the same way a prison door would slam shut, leaving Yao in near darkness until his eyes adjusted to the candlelit room.

The room was doused in red, cherry colored leather couches spread throughout the room and almost blending in with the crimson walls and red tinted floorboards. It was excessively decorated with gold frames and trinkets, candles alit throughout the entire room. An almost rotten stench wrapped itself around Yao, holding him still.

He felt a tug on his shoulder, turning to find Yong Soo pulling his black parka off. Instinctively Yao grasped the sleeve, resisting the movement of the jacket as it slid off one arm.

'No coats, Yao.' Yong Soo pulled the other sleeve off. 'Just one of our rules. It's for the girls' safety, you understand?'

'Right.' Yao croaked out, his voice still a weak whisper.

As the jacket was thrown off to the side, he felt the separation. Vulnerable, cold without it. He looked helplessly to it, itching to at least rummage through its pockets and retrieve his pocket knife.

Yong Soo chuckled and led him to the couch. 'Have a seat. It's empty today, so enjoy it, man. Not everyone gets a chance in the Red Room.'

Yao sank into the leather seat, shivering even more so when he did. He wanted his parka back, the only thing that kept him somewhat warm. He did not care for the bloodstains that once resided on it, for the groans of agony that were woven into its fabric, for the memory of Ivan's hands sown into it – these were purely incidental, and could be forgotten. Yao would wash them away, stain by stain.

_But the scars won't fade._

'Want a drink?' Yong Soo threw himself onto the seat next to him, splaying out onto the couch. He slapped Yao's back, leaning closer. 'How about that new drink I made, like, ages ago? The one you never tried? Huh?'

'Ah…' Yao felt the air spring out of him with the force of Yong Soo's hand. 'I-I'm fine.'

'You'll change your mind later! I'm telling you!' Yong Soo laughed, giving one last pat before turning back towards the curtain. 'Bring them in!' he shouted.

Yao looked over to the black curtain, its fabric peeled back by slender fingers. A tan woman slithered through the curtains, followed by another, and then another. Adorned in black and crimson dresses, their heels clicked against the floor as they approached, circling around Yao and Yong Soo.

A pair of hands slithered across Yao's shoulders, and almost in reflex he squirmed in his seat. Yong Soo chuckled.

'Don't be shy, dude! They're all yours! Well, technically they're all Jin's. But for now, they're yours!'

Yao swallowed as the hands slid beneath his shirt and across his chest, moving too fast and too low. He shifted on the couch, feeling fingers trace over his stomach and wanting to flinch away. He should have enjoyed this, should have found something pleasant about it, but all Yao could feel was the crawling sensation of something spindly on him. He shuddered and reached up to pry the hands away. The girl pulled away and frowned.

'I-I'm sorry.' Yao fumbled to straighten his shirt, unable to look anywhere except his own trembling hands, pale and bony. White as fine china, not a trace of the red that had once stained them. How was it they had stayed so pristine?

His sleeve had ridden up above his wrist, and it was in pulling it back down that Yao saw the pale line etched onto his skin.

_I don't belong here._

'You okay there, Yao?' Yong Soo asked in a mumble, though his face was already buried in the throat of one of the girls seated in his lap.

'I... I need to leave.' Yao stood up, unsteadily swaying when he did. A hand grabbed his, yanking him back onto the couch.

'No, no, I get it!' Yong Soo laughed, pulling away from the girl. 'You're uh… You're just not up for it. I get it.' He pushed the girl away, her thin frame obediently climbing off and leaving. A golden anklet glistened as she did so, the candle lit glimmer of it catching Yao's eye. A delicate shackle, a beautiful lead from which she would always find her way to her prison. Yao glanced back at his wrist, now covered, but the pale scar beneath it still vivid in his mind. A shackle bound by skin.

_I wonder if it'll lead me back…_

Yao felt a cigarette being pressed into his hand, a lighter hovering near him. He snapped his gaze up to Yong Soo. The lighter clicked as Yong Soo's thumb pressed down, a flame swaying in the air. Teasing, almost, to have Yao catch it. Perhaps if he let the flame lick him, let it singe away the pale shackle, he would have nowhere to go, nowhere to be lead to.

'You having a smoke or not?'

Yao blinked, twirling the cigarette between his fingers. 'No…'

'Are you sure?' Yong Soo leant closer, a grin plastered on his face. 'They're not just any cigarettes, you know. Jin would kill me if he saw me handing these out like freebies, man.'

'But he's not watching.' Yao said, the cigarette still twisting and turning in his hand. He pinched it, feeling its centre crush beneath his fingers. Ah, how lovely it felt to break it…

'He's not watching now.' Yong Soo lowered his voice, glancing around. 'But you know…sometimes it's like he appears out of nowhere. I'm sure he's got some secret entrance somewhere in this room. I haven't found it yet, though.' Yong Soo scoffed. 'Sneaky fucker, isn't he?'

Yao stayed quiet, eyeing the crushed state of the cigarette.

_I ruined it._

'I don't think I can smoke this.' Yao said.

Yong Soo frowned, looking down at Yao's palm. 'What did you do to it?' He pulled out another cigarette from his breast pocket. 'Here, I'll give you another -'

'Don't.'

Yong Soo let his hand fall to his lap, looking up at Yao for a brief moment. '…Okay.' His eyes seemed to bore into Yao, searching for something. But Yao would not let him, would not allow him to see any part of him. He turned away from Yong Soo, staring off into the candles and melting into the couch.

_I only need to breathe. Nothing more, nothing less._

Yao would not think of the prison he had left, or of the cold hands that kept him shackled there. It was gone, far away and lost somewhere in the night. Even if he wanted to –

_(I want to)_

\- return to Ivan, he couldn't. There was only air to breathe, and a pair of trembling hands to still.

Yong Soo leant back into the couch, spreading his arms across the back of it and sighing. He puffed out billows of rotten smoke.

'You've changed, man.'

'Have I?' Yao let words fall out of his mouth, hollow in their sound.

'Yeah. It's like you're a zombie.' Yong Soo turned, leaning with one arm against the back of the couch. 'Have you like, been bitten by one or something?' He chuckled, and took hold of Yao's chin, turning it so that the side of his neck was more exposed.

Yao watched the distant flickers of flames, ignoring the itch that came with Yong Soo's clinging touch. 'I guess you could say that.' He pulled his chin away.

A breath of silence. 'You're not still cutting yourself, are you?'

'What?' Yao snapped, turning his head to Yong Soo. Without another second passing by, he felt his sleeves being rolled up.

'Huh…' Yong Soo turned Yao's arms, leaning his face in towards his pale wrists. 'Still just that one cut…' Yao yanked his hands away.

'I'm not cutting myself.' Yao pulled his sleeves back over his arms, although he felt the need to scratch at them, scrape away where Yong Soo had touched him.

'Right. And you didn't leave yourself out to die in the snow, either.'

'I-' Yao wanted to deny this, only he wasn't so sure himself. He had not intentionally driven out to pass out in the snow, and yet in some way it was the exact kind of solace he had been looking for. Tempted to feel numbness again, Yao wanted to leave. 'I didn't.' He said, but the lie weighed heavily on his tongue.

'Yao. Dude.' Yong Soo leaned closer, the stench of the cigarette filling Yao's nostrils. 'I can't have you like, hurting yourself, man.'

'I said I didn't.' Yao seethed, pulling away from Yong Soo's hot breath.

'But I know you did.' Yong Soo inched closer, advancing with every flinch Yao took. 'Why can't you just talk to me?' His eyes, now slightly bloodshot, seemed to search Yao once again. Yao felt his fingers curl, wanting to crush the cigarette again, only it was already limp and broken.

'I know everything about you already…' Yong Soo whispered, chin resting on Yao's shoulder. Yao tensed.

'You can't know everything.'

_You wouldn't want to know everything._

'But I do.' Yong Soo chuckled, prying the crumbled cigarette out of Yao's hand and throwing it aside. His hand returned back to Yao's lap, resting on his thigh. 'Like that panda tattoo you got ages ago….' His hand trailed down to the side of Yao's thigh and up its length. 'On your–'

Yao pressed his hand over Yong Soo's, stopping it in its tracks. 'You were the cause of that.' He wrenched the clinging hand away, skin itching once again where Yong Soo had left trails. Unpleasant. Repulsive. Skin was left aflame and Yao wanted to claw it away.

Yong Soo burst into laughter, his head trembling on Yao's shoulder as he did so. 'Not my fault you hogged the whole bottle… without watching me open it.'

Yao shook him off, getting up from his seat. A clammy hand quickly took hold of his.

'No, dude! Don't go! You can't still be mad about that!' Yong Soo giggled, laughter still as loud and brusque as before. 'Come on, it was funny wasn't it? Getting a panda tattoo on your ass? Just a harmless joke, man!'

Yao pulled his hand away, thinking to wash it – no, to scald it – afterwards. He turned and walked out of the room, not saying a word. Yong Soo called out after him, but as Yao pushed through the black curtains, he was not followed.

Yao walked through the hot hazy air, red tinted lights and loud music stifling him. It was too warm in here, sweaty and drenched with the smell of tobacco and booze. Realisation hit him as his hand fumbled for his coat pocket, finding nothing but his sweatpants and shirt beneath his fingers. He stood still and considered going back for his parka, only to decide that it wasn't worth it. He would not need his pocket knife where he was going anyway.

Yao caught sight of the door, of the black night peeking in through its window. Making his way toward it, he anticipated the cool and icy feel of the night air on his skin. Fingers twitched eagerly for that numbness again, for the snow coating them entirely. He was only a few trembling steps away from this, when a soft voice drifted into his ear.

_Look, over there…_

Almost of its own accord, Yao's head turned to the corner of the bar. Upon the sight of it, the hole in his chest deepened, buried further into him.

It was still there, this lonely table. Dimly lit and empty, it stood there barren as if waiting for someone. The red lights from the other side of the bar bled into its wood, but everything else about it was the same.

 _All the same…_ save for that one person that should have been seated there.

Drawn to it, lured into it as if a hook had grappled onto him, Yao's feet no longer shook as they stepped toward it. His fingers reached out for the wood of the table and swept over it. A little taste, a little bit of flavour, before he gave himself up to the snow again. Yao took a seat at the table, instantly regretting it when he saw the empty seat opposite of him.

' _Tonight…_ ' A voice crooned, distant and overpowered by glasses clinking and raucous laughter. But it was there, flowing from the mouth of the songstress that stood on a small stage. ' _The starlight flows in to my window._ ' There were no accompanying instruments, only her lingering voice. Yao watched her distant form, and although he could not see her feet, he was sure that she too, wore a golden shackle.

'Where is that bloody bartender? I want the blank-faced one back!' A voice drawled out from nearby. 'You must be thirsty, Alfred! Please, take my drink!'

'It's empty.' Another voice said, grating irritably in the air. 'I think you've had enough.'

'I'll pour another one for him.' A smoother voice said. 'It'll be on the house.'

'No, please don't. He's had enough.'

Yao turned to the voices, finding two men seated at the bar. Jin was stood behind the bar, a polite smile plastered across his lips, though his eyes darted between the two men as if to examine them. The man with a cane in his hands stumbled out of his seat.

'Take me home then, dear Alfie…' A chuckle. 'You _are_ taking this stray home, right?'

The other man remained seated and stared. He seemed to consider the drunken man for a moment, his blue eyed gaze trailing in Yao's direction. Upon seeing Yao, his brows furrowed – recognition, perhaps? Yao flitted his eyes away, feigning interest in the surface of the table. His skin burned, and Yao was sure the man was staring at him intently. A shadow hovered nearby, but Yao did not look up, for fear of further provoking the man.

_I need to get out of here._

'Hey.'

Yao snapped his gaze up. His clenched hands relaxed, a sigh escaping his lips when he only saw Yong Soo standing by the table. Glancing back at the bar however, Yao could still see the man seated there. No longer staring, but stealing glances in the same way Yao did. Neither Jin nor the drunken man seemed to notice. His stomach twisted uneasily, unsure why the man had taken an interest in him.

Aware of Yong Soo standing idly by, Yao looked up at him. 'What is it?'

Yong Soo laughed, but the smile faltered. 'Um… I wanted to apologize.'

Yao flitted his gaze back to the blue eyed man again, checking if he was still looking his way.

'Could… uh…Do you mind if I say this in private?' Yong Soo scratched at the back of his neck. 'It's kinda tough with the music and everything.'

The man, who was previously caught in conversation with Jin, had now paused and turned to look at Yao. Yao snapped his head back to Yong Soo, though he knew the man had seen him staring.

'Fine.' He got up, wanting to go anywhere but here. He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling conscious of them. Though they were clean, his hands felt wet, stained crimson red. His stomach churned once again as he followed Yong Soo, all too aware of every glance and whisper. Yao knew it couldn't be, but he felt as if everyone knew. Exposed even in the dim light of the bar, Yao sought shelter of some kind.

He followed Yong Soo to the back of the bar, up the stairway that led to an office upstairs. Closing the door behind him, Yao recognized it as Jin's office. Yong Soo leant with his back to the desk, eyes wandering around Yao, to the wooden floor beneath them, silent.

'You wanted to tell me something?' Yao asked, folding his arms over and leaning back on the door. With only the sound of fluorescent office lights flickering, the pause that hung after his question became all the more uncomfortable, more obvious in its hesitance.

Yong Soo rubbed his forehead. 'Yeah. I just… I'm sorry about what I said earlier, dude. About a lot of the stuff I said. I mean-' He chuckled. 'I was kind of a dick, wasn't I?'

Yao frowned. 'Yeah. You were.'

_But it's more than that._

'And I am totally sorry, man! All that shit I said, I promise I won't say stuff like that anymore!' Yong Soo pushed himself off from the desk, stepping closer to Yao. 'And dude, if it makes you feel any better, you can totally get back at me! Like, punch me, kick me. Knock my teeth out if that'll make you forgive me! Whatever you want!'

'Whatever?' Yao echoed back.

'Yeah, man!' Yong Soo nodded. 'But, uh… you don't have to. I mean, we could hug it out instead. Like, that's… that's an option, too.'

Yao pursed his lips, considering the offer. Punching Yong Soo, bruising him… it was a tempting offer. The clingy man and his stifling ways, Yao could feel his patience with him wearing dangerously thin. How easy, how wonderful it would be to finally act on it! Yao's hands balled into fists beneath his sleeves, itching to crush Yong Soo's face. He did not quite realise it until now, but Yao had been waiting for such an opportunity for a very long time.

_Take it! Make him pay in blood!_

Yao's skin was branded with this man's stupidity. His anger was only furthered by it. Why shouldn't he take up the offer, which had been made so lightly?

But even so, even as his mind raced through the image of Yong Soo's bloodied face, there was a twinge of guilt. Did Yong Soo really deserve it? He was an annoying bastard, granted. But he was nothing more than that. No, Yao was not entitled to beat Yong Soo.

_I left those shears behind long ago…_

Yao stepped forward towards Yong Soo, walking slowly across the room. He would not beat him, no, but he would certainly relish the uncertainty in Yong Soo's eyes as he approached. Looking ready to flinch, Yong Soo chuckled nervously when Yao was only inches away.

'So… uh. Is this a punch or a hug?'

Yao reached forward and pressed himself against Yong Soo. His hands lightly hovered over Yong Soo's shoulder blades, feeling the heat from Yong Soo's chest and wanting to recoil. Every muscle in Yao's body moved stiffly, hesitant and reluctant in their movement. The gesture was more mechanical than anything else, more polite than warm in any sentiment. Deciding that a few seconds was more than enough, he pulled back.

'Don't expect any more of thi-' Yao said, only to be muffled by Yong Soo's shoulder when he was yanked back into clingy arms. Yong Soo laughed and squeezed tighter, crushing Yao's ribs painfully.

'I knew you couldn't punch me!' Yong Soo rocked Yao from side to side in the embrace, holding on too long for Yao to catch a breath. Yao shifted in his grasp, the uneasy feeling of a net falling over him once again.

Yao attempted to pry himself out of Yong Soo's arms, only to find that it was pointless to do so. Yong Soo's arms held on tightly, burying his face in Yao's hair and laughing.

'Let go.' Yao said, his breath unsteady.

'But this is so nice!' Yong Soo spun around, taking Yao with him in a dizzying turn. Wobbling in their balance, they fell toward the desk. It screeched as it was pushed across the floor, Yao leaning back against it.

He felt Yong Soo inhale by his ear, air trailing across his throat and jaw. 'This is _really_ nice…' Yong Soo mumbled, his chuckle lower as he buried his face into the crook of Yao's neck.

'That's enough.' Yao squirmed, sickened by the heat of Yong Soo's breath on his skin. The feeling rose up from his stomach, forming a lump in his throat. 'Let go.'

'But I don't think I want to...' Yong Soo murmured, his arms snaking around Yao's waist and drawing him closer. His lips dragged across Yao's throat, resting just below his jaw. Yao pried his one hand away, leaning back on the desk to keep from falling over. Unable to free himself completely, his hand searched the desk surface, looking for something - anything - to tear away the net that had trapped him.

As Yong Soo's lips pinched against his skin, Yao bit back a yelp. His hand frantically felt around the desk, coming across a cold surface. His hand fumbled around it, finding its pointed edge and grasping it.

'Stop it.' Yao said, the lump in his throat making his voice hoarse. His hand dragged the cold item across the desk, bringing it closer. ' _Stop._ '

Yao lifted his hand up, curling his fingers around it tightly. Just as he was about to thrust it into Yong Soo's side, Yong Soo pulled away.

'Ah, _fuck_ …' Yong Soo rested his head on Yao's shoulder, hands still grasping onto his arms. 'Yao, I am so, so sorry.' He mumbled into Yao's shirt.

Yao sighed and let his hand fall back to the table, making a light clanging sound as the sharp object hit the desk. Yong Soo did not seem to hear this. 'Let go of me.' Yao said.

'I- I don't know what got into me!' Yong Soo lifted his head, chuckling. 'It's… it's like I just…' His gaze flickered, searching Yao's face. 'I-I don't know why I did that.'

'Just don't do it again.'

'I…I won't.' Yong Soo's hands fell to his sides. 'Um…yeah. Are we… are we still cool?'

'Yeah.' Yao said, though the word felt hollow. 'We're fine.'

His hand, however, could not seem to let go of the blade it held. Rather, it seemed to grasp onto it tighter, hanging on to it even as the moment passed. But Yao would not need it. Yao would not use it.

_You want to, though…_

His thumb ran over the object, feeling little dips and crevices over the handle. His index finger trailed up to the point of the blade, pressing into it and realising he was holding a pair of scissors in his hands.

_Shears, if you prefer…_

Yao could not see them, but he knew – he felt – that they were beautiful. And oh, how much more beautiful would they be coated in red! How much more beautiful Yong Soo would be, if his face was no longer animated by that brash grin. His stupid, reckless grin, that still played on his lips as Yao's body thawed and melted and broke apart into tiny little pieces.

Not once had Yong Soo really asked about how Yao had ended up in the snow, to pursue the question even when Yao refused to answer. Clamping his warm and clingy hands on him, Yong Soo only wanted to have Yao to himself, and nothing more.

'I know you'll probably not want to,' Yong Soo said. 'But you can stay over at my place tonight, if you don't have anywhere to go.'

_I forgave you._

Yao fiddled with the scissors behind his back. 'Maybe.'

_But that doesn't matter anymore._

He grabbed Yong Soo's collar and raised the scissors in the air. The blade struck down on Yong Soo's face, ringing out a scream with its trail. Whimpers and bitten back cries reached Yao's ears, but they were muffled, overpowered by the metallic scent of blood.

_Beautiful…_

The blades struck again, carving another line. A third time, slicing away bloodied skin. Yao's grip on Yong Soo's shirt was coated in red, feeling sticky in its hold as fat droplets fell onto it.

Yong Soo shrieked, tearing himself away and stumbling back. His hands held onto his face, a cry of horror as he fumbled around for the door, blinded by his own blood.

Yao grabbed Yong Soo's wrist, hacking at his fingers so that they remained as torn stumps. Yong Soo shoved him away with his other hand, knocking Yao to the ground. Yao got to his feet, taking hold of Yong Soo's throat and pushing him against the door.

'I'm not finished.' Yao said, having to hold Yong Soo back with whatever little strength was left. But Yong Soo was stronger than he was, pushing Yao back and sending him stumbling to the floor once more.

Yong Soo felt for the door handle with his other hand, pressing down on it and pulling the door open. Yao pounced onto his back, pushing him against the half open door with a loud bang as it shut. With one arm wrapped around his throat, Yao dug the scissor blade into Yong Soo's face. He pulled it out, thrusting it into his shoulder, his chest and throat. Red spattered onto the door, onto his hands and his creased sleeves.

Yong Soo crumbled onto the floor with a groan, crushing Yao beneath him. Yao scrambled up, straddling Yong Soo and raising the scissors above his chest. His hands were poised, ready to slam the blade into Yong Soo and carve him open.

He froze.

_What am I doing?_

Yong Soo lay beneath him groaning, too weak to scream, to even writhe in agony. One eye was a deep crimson pool, a dark river flowing onto the floor beneath him. His face was so torn, so shred apart and ripped at the surface, that Yao could not see Yong Soo in it anymore.

A sob was caught in Yao's throat, only stopped by the lump that had made itself present only moments ago. The scissors trembled in his hands, wavering over Yong Soo's chest.

_(It hurts so much, doesn't it?)_

Yong Soo's mangled hand reached for Yao, barely able to even touch his sleeve before falling back limply. 'Yao…' Yong Soo choked. 'Don't…'

_(Open up and see.)_

The blade held still over his chest, inviting Yao to finish what he had started, to strike through Yong Soo's heart and be done with him. But Yao couldn't. He could only feel the tears burn his eyes. They filled up his chest up, until his lungs felt as if they would burst.

_(It's for both of us, myshka.)_

Yao's hands wilted, letting the scissors fall softly onto Yong Soo.

'But there's only one of us.' Yao croaked out, a cry finally breaking through. He crumbled and let his head fall onto Yong Soo's red stained shirt, tears bleeding into it as he sobbed.

'I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…' Yao felt his whole body shake, quivering as if his bones were falling apart inside of him, leaving him a crumpled and shivering mess. 'I've ruined it, haven't I? I've ruined it…'

Yong Soo said nothing, leaving Yao's tears to dry on his shirt in silence. But it was between hiccupped sobs that Yao realised he could not hear Yong Soo's heart. He felt for his own, clawing at his chest with sticky and bloodied hands. Yao could not feel his own heart, either.

_It's gone…_

His ribs ached as if they had caved in, collapsing from the void that had been created. Congealed blood crawled on his skin, spread and entwined around him. Tears had scorched his throat and eyes until they felt raw. Already empty, already hollowed out and crumbling apart. Already gone.

_(Ochi chernye…)_

Though he whimpered, the sound of it never left his lips. And though he trembled, his body felt still. Yao was only the wooden husk left behind, the marionette with its strings cut.

_There's no one to lead me home…_


	16. True Love Aches

_Honeysuckle…_

The sweet scent filled Yao’s lungs, sticky and overwhelming in its hold. How was it that such a painful sight could smell so lovely…?

Something cold trembled in his hand, and looking to it, Yao saw the gold shimmering in his grasp. Standing over Yong Soo’s body, tear soaked and crimson, the crane in Yao’s hand was poised, its bloody beak still open as if hungry for more.

_(I can help you get rid of the body, da?)_

‘No…’ Yao whispered, shaking his head as tears threatened to flow once again. He needed to fix this, to mend Yong Soo back together. It was impossible… but Yao could try.

Yao whipped around, searching the room. Spotting a potted plant, he walked over to it and shoved the golden scissors into the dirt, burying it deep. He tried to dust the soil off his hands, but the earth stuck to the blood congealing on his skin. He muttered a curse, frantically fumbling around shelves and decorative tables, looking for something beautiful, a sweet token to offer. He knocked over a vase, jolting as it shattered by his feet. He hissed as a shard cut into his bare foot, but the pain soon subsided when he caught sight of a flower on the floor.

A delicate white orchid, lying wet in the shard ridden water puddle. He picked it up, careful to not stain its petals with his hands.

_Beautiful…_

Yao looked to the shelves, plucking more orchids out of the other vases and bunching them together in his hands. He walked back over to Yong Soo, stifling a cry when his marred face reminded him of what he had done.

‘I’m so sorry…’ Yao croaked, crouching down and gently placing the orchids into Yong Soo’s hair. He entwined them between the deep brown strands of hair, his gaze avoiding the red flesh beside his hands.

_(There isn’t much time, myshka.)_

‘I know…’ Yao said, his voice barely a whisper in the sickly sweet air.  He felt a tremor overtake him, his legs shaking as he left the room. Once again, the stairs loomed like clifftops beneath his feet, every step ringing loudly in his ears as he descended, though his feet were still bare.

Reaching the throbbing red lights of the bar, Yao crossed his arms, conscious of the red on his hands despite the dim light of the place. No one could see, no… but perhaps they could smell, could taste the metallic taste of blood in the air.

He pushed into a nearby bathroom door, balling his hands into fists so that they would not leave behind an ugly mark. He darted his head over his shoulder, checking that no one had followed him in. Relieved that he was alone, he hurried toward the sink.

_Broken… I’ve broken it…_

Yao winced as he scrubbed his hands beneath the hot water, scratching away at the skin and wanting Yong Soo off of him. Clingy even in death, tenacious even when his body grew cold.

_Why did I break it?_

As blood swirled into the drain, his hands glowing red with welts, Yao glanced up at the mirror. A blood flecked face, eyes wide and sunken. He looked the part, Yao thought, a hollow chuckle bubbling out of his throat. But his smile quickly wilted, corners tugging back down as a stall behind him opened.

‘Enjoying yourself, are you?’ The blonde man smiled. Yao recognized him as the drunken man from before, though his words were not slurred this time. Rather, they sounded crisp, controlled. Green eyes fixed onto his in the mirror.

‘How close Alfred was…’ The man said, approaching Yao from behind. ‘It really is pure luck that I stumbled upon you here.’ He chuckled. Yao swallowed, frozen as the hot tap water continued to gush out.

The man raised a cane. He tapped Yao’s right shoulder, raising it above his head to then tap his left shoulder. ‘I, Arthur Kirkland, hereby dub you…’ The man paused, the cane still resting on Yao. A smile quirked onto his lips. ‘Hm. What shall we call you?’

Yao remained silent, whispered thoughts roaming in his head frantically, searching. _Shall I? Shall I break it again?_ He eyed the black cane and could almost feel its force in his hands, how crushingly they could thrash a man’s face.

‘If I remember correctly,’ Arthur twisted the cane on Yao’s shoulder, rolling it up and down its length. ‘You’re name is Yao Wang, isn’t it?’

Animated voices echoed outside the bathroom, causing Yao’s breath to still momentarily. When they passed by and distanced in volume, he exhaled. ‘What do you want?’ Yao croaked out, letting the words sound out as steadily as he could. He shut off the tap, though his eyes remained on the man. ‘You’re not a police officer, are you?’

The cane slid off his shoulder. ‘No.’

Yao grabbed a paper towel, wiping away the bloody splotches from his face. His hands shook and trembled, but he kept his feet planted to the floor, anchoring himself. ‘You want money then?’

‘Not at all.’

Yao turned around to face the man, his hands gripping the sink behind him. ‘Then what do you want?’

Arthur’s smile widened, eyes brightening like lit candles. ‘I only wanted to look at you, that’s all…’

Yao shifted in his position, the flickering fluorescent light making him feel all the more watched, all the more burning beneath the spotlight. He diverted his gaze to the floor, looking at Arthur’s shoes.

‘Give me your shoes then.’ Yao said, snapping his head back up to him.

Arthur frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You had your look at me. Pay me back.’

Arthur chuckled, clicking the cane onto the tiled floor and leaning on it. ‘I’m afraid that’s not how this works, love.’

Voices drowned in and out in the distance, approaching the bathroom once again. Yao gripped the cold sink tighter. Cornered. Trapped. They could see, could smell the blood though Yao had washed it away.

‘You… you want something more?’ Yao asked, eyes darting to the door. ‘You want me to show you something else? A little blood, a dead body?’ He slammed his clammy hands against the porcelain of the sink. ‘What do you want?’ Yao hissed.

Green eyes flickered, trailing over Yao’s hands, his contorted face. Searching, picking Yao apart with a single blink. ‘You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?’ Arthur said, sighing. ‘Ah, my dear boy… what has brought you this far?’

Yao dug his nails into his palms, wincing as they buried into raw wounds. He pushed himself off the sink, leaving the bathroom and letting the door swing back.

_They know._

Yao squirmed through the pulsing crowd, the overwhelming scent of sweat and perfume coating his skin. Music throbbed in his ears, but only his thoughts rang loud and clear.

_Everyone knows._

Was Arthur following him? Yao did not risk looking behind, did not even glance at the bar, where surely the blue eyed man, too, was watching. Could he see the blood on Yao’s shirt amidst the bustling crowd? Could he read the panic that raced through Yao’s veins? Could he smell the honeysuckle, which still surrounded Yao like a persistent fog? Yao did not know, could not know, as his eyes only watched the ground in front of him, fumbling for the way out.

He pressed himself against the exit, pushing the door open and stumbling out into the cold night air. A couple walking past steered away, giving startled glances. But Yao did not care, did not even cry out when the icy pavement stung his bare feet.

_(Something wrong, myshka?)_

Yao bit back a whimper, wrapping his arms around his chest tightly as the cold continued to bite him. The road became quiet, empty and damp with the frosty air. His feet became numb, no longer aching though his body still quivered in the breeze. As he planted each foot in front of the other, his bones hollowed out, threatening to twist and break like twigs. His heart had already quieted, already shriveled away… it was only time until the rest of him did so, too.

_(Sometimes I feel like that… like someone’s carved a piece of your chest out.)_

‘Shh…’ Yao hushed his voice, the sweetness of it drifting in the air and teasing him. ‘D-Don’t.’ His teeth chattered, feeling cold fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling.

_(This way, myshka. Can’t you remember?)_

The night had become incredibly dark, silent as the streetlights became sparse. There were no voices, save for his and Ivan’s, no eyes nor spotlights. And yet, Yao was at the center of it all. The moon glowering down on him, it was as if the sky itself was watching. Watching Yao stumble and fall, crumble and break into little pieces. Yao once enjoyed watching the moon wane and sink into the clouds, to be eaten away in its eclipse, and now, the favor was being returned to him.

Reaching an alleyway, Yao halted. His breath billowed out like fog in the winter air, Yao looking down at the snow covered ground that he had tread so long ago. A distant, foggy memory sent a chilling ache through his bones.

_It was here._

He could almost see, almost feel the warmth of blood seeping into the ground. In the shape of a man… of the pieces Yao had left behind. It had been here, where Yao had drawn out a man’s last breath for the first time.

His knees felt weak, wanting to sink into the glittery snow. How soft it looked… the blood would make it warmer, surely.

Hot breath touched the back of his neck. Yao turned around, finding Arthur standing behind him. Startled, he stumbled back against the alleyway wall. His back hitting the brick wall, something weighed heavily in his stomach, churning and twisting within him.

‘Why did you stop?’ Arthur asked, stepping toward Yao, his shoes crunching in the snow. Flecks of ice dusted his coat, and Yao crossed his shivering arms, almost envious as the man stood there comfortably in the cold wind.

‘Why did you follow me?’

‘That’s a silly question, don’t you think?’ Arthur took a step closer, and though it was small, Yao flinched. ‘Why don’t I ask a more sensible one?’  

Yao pressed himself further into the wall. He could smell the whisky on him, the aftershave and the sweaty smell of the bar. He wanted to recoil away, to crumble away into the snow, but the man would not let him.

‘Tell me, Yao…’

Yao shivered at the sound of his name, the pointedness of it. _You…It’s you, Yao, that’s done this…_

‘Where is your partner?’

Yao’s chest trembled, nearly collapsing in on itself. ‘How… I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t worry, Yao.’ Arthur smiled dryly. ‘I don’t know his name, where he lives… I only want to know if he’s still alive. Did you kill him?’

Yao shook his head, the image of his own blood spurting out against dimly lit walls playing out before him once again. _No_ … _he killed me._

‘Where is he now?’

‘Don’t know…’ Yao croaked out, legs feeling weak, begging to give way and let him dissolve away into the snow. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Hm.’ Arthur quirked a brow. ‘A falling out? Is that what’s happened?’

‘Don’t ask me… any more...’ Yao’s hand fumbled for his coat pocket, looking for that pocket knife, for its sharp blade. But it wasn’t there. His hand only felt the icy fabric of his thin shirt, cold gusts of air seeping through it and biting his skin.

‘What happened to you, my dear boy? Wasn’t it fun? All that blood, it must have done _something_ to you. Tell me…’

_It did. It did do something to me._

‘Did it excite you? Did it make your heart race?’

_No…_

‘Was it nice to share? To cut away at flesh together?’

‘Did he tell you how beautiful it was?’

Yao grabbed the collar of Arthur’s coat, bloodied nails grasping onto the dark fabric. ‘I…’ Yao chuckled, though the laugh was dried up and empty. ‘I didn’t bring my knife with me.’

Arthur stared back, eyes widened in surprise. Quickly, the mask of composure fell over his face. A lopsided, drawn out smile. ‘I didn’t bring my cane with me. I suppose we’re both ill-equipped for this.’

Yao pushed Arthur down into the snow, straddling him and wrapping his trembling hands around his throat.

_Break it._

It would not matter anymore.

_Crush it._

It was already ruined, already torn apart. What would one more ripped seam do?

_It’s already gone._

How much more could it hurt?

Yao tightened his grip on Arthur’s throat, watching his freckled skin redden and contort. He squeezed and squeezed, did not care for the nails that clawed at his arms and neck, the red welts they left behind. A choked cry – was it his own? Yao could not tell.

Arthur’s green eyes bulged, irises becoming oh so much more beautiful, so vivid against the flush of his skin. Feeling Arthur’s windpipe crush beneath his fingers, Yao watched for the candle light to flicker away, for the sparked eyes to dull and glaze over. When would the moment come? When would that smile wilt away? Yao could not wait, did not think he could make his strength last until then.

A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders, yanking him off Arthur. Arthur gasped for air, the coarse sound of it echoing in the alleyway as Yao struggled against the hands that had torn him away.

‘Let go of me!’ Yao shrieked, panic flourishing in his chest. ‘No!’

_You can go… after I’m done playing with you, doll._

‘No!’ Yao twisted himself in the arms that held him. A cold hand placed itself over Yao’s mouth. Yao sank his teeth into it, biting until blood drew out. A hiss of pain from his captor, but no matter how hard Yao struggled, the man still held onto him.

‘Shh…’ A soft voice hushed him, arms wrapping around Yao like snakes. ‘ _Myshka,_ please.’

Yao exhaled sharply, the air leaving his lungs so fast that the dim alleyway began to flicker and fade. A whimper, his ribs crumbling beneath Ivan’s arms. There was nothing to hold them up, nothing contained within them to keep them from collapsing. ‘Ivan...’ His chest caved in and gave way to a sob, caught in his throat.

His legs weakened, knees giving way so that he hung limply in Ivan’s hold. ‘ _Ochi chernye…_ ’ A cold hand caressed his face, Ivan’s other hand guiding him so that Yao crumpled into the snow softly. ‘You did not go far, did you?’

Yao felt the snow melt and seep into him, but Ivan’s hands remained solid as they brushed over his face, his throat. ‘You are too cold, _myshka._ ’ Ivan said, a warm curtain falling over Yao’s back. Looking down at his shoulders, Yao saw the snow-flecked fabric of Ivan’s coat draped on them. He looked up at Ivan, his brows furrowed and his eyes…

_They still look so sad._

Ivan’s lips curled into a weak smile, unwinding the scarf around his neck. Through teary eyes, Yao could only see the inflamed skin that was sprawled on his neck, the blur of a deep scar in the dark alleyway. Ivan wrapped the scarf around Yao loosely, the fabric of it still warm. Yao reached up to touch it, grasping it tightly.

A choked cry rose out of Yao’s throat like broken laughter. ‘I’m so sorry…’ Yao said, still tasting Ivan’s blood on his lips as he spoke these words. ‘I’m so sorry I broke it… my promise…’

Powdered snow fell from the sky, drifting on icy gusts of air and piercing Yao. But he was already numbed, already stung by the winter, and so all he felt was the hole in his chest again. Burning, aching, it had been lit aflame by Ivan’s voice.

‘Do not worry about that, _myshka_.’

Yao shook his head, muscles weak and quivering. Ivan knelt down on the ground in front of him, pulling the coat tighter around Yao’s shoulders. Yao watched Ivan’s brows furrow, his eyelids falter at the sight of Yao’s bloodied hands. Ivan’s eyes glanced up at Yao, a gentle smile on his lips, though it was trembling at the corners.

‘You’re shaking. I need to take you home, _da?_ ’

_Home…_

The word sounded so sweet, so tender… it was perhaps because of this that it hurt so much, too. And it was with this pain, this awakened bruise in his chest, that Yao felt a chuckle rise from it. The laughter overtook him, making his whole body shudder. Ivan’s frown deepened at this, his hand reaching out to Yao’s face, his thumb wiping away at a tear Yao did not realize had fallen.

‘Yao, don’t cry…’

Yao gasped for air. His shoulders no longer shaking from the cold, no longer quivering from his laughter, but from the sobs that tore through his throat. He could not stop, could not keep away the knife that stabbed him with every breath.

Ivan took hold of his shoulders, pulling Yao in towards his chest. ‘ _Ochi chernye_ …’ He murmured, arms locking tightly around Yao. ‘ _Serdtse bednoye vyzhzhennoy…_ I’ve ruined you, haven’t I? Forgive me...’

Yao shook his head, burying his face into Ivan’s shirt.

 _There’s nothing to forgive,_ Yao wanted to say. But his words were barely whispers, and so he could only hope that Ivan understood.

Hearing the soft thud of a heart, Yao’s hand searched for it, smoothing over Ivan’s chest until it felt the gentle pulse. Yao pressed himself closer, and though his tears still flowed, a smile bloomed on his lips. Not gone, not eaten away. It was still there, restoring the warmth to Yao’s chest, thawing it out until Yao could hear his own heartbeat, too.

Though his body was scattered in wounds and scars, Yao forgot their pain. Perhaps numbed, perhaps alleviated by this closeness, the ache in his chest subsided. The icy breeze, the muffled sound of Arthur scrambling and slipping on the frosty pavement, felt distant and so far away.

 _Only this…_ Yao closed his eyes, hearing the sigh in Ivan’s chest.

‘A dead man will not dispose of himself…’ Ivan rested his chin atop Yao’s head. ‘I’m afraid we must go after him, _myshka._ ’

Yao mumbled in agreement, though he made no effort to move. Every muscle gave up, fell limp so that not even his mouth could form coherent words. Falling deeply into something, into what felt like a black ocean, Yao was drifting away.

_Please let me stay here…_

‘Yao… You have to stay awake, Yao…’

Cold rings shackled Yao’s wrists, fingers wrapping around them tightly. But they would lead him home, they would always guide him back to that heartbeat, the pulse that Yao found comfort in.

‘Goodnight…’ Yao croaked out as the world seem to drown out. But even as everything dissolved away, Ivan’s hand still remained, clasped onto him as Yao submerged into pitch black darkness.

 

* * *

 

Alfred unfolded his arms, crossing them again in the other direction as he sat at the bar. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour it had been, since the drunken Englishman had wandered off to the bathroom. Optimistic – if you could call it that – Alfred had assured himself that Arthur was perhaps ill, puking from the excessive drinking. Perhaps he had even passed out, and lay on the bathroom tiles like any other drunk in this alcohol drenched place.

‘Wouldn’t you like a drink?’

Alfred snapped his gaze up to the bartender, a bespeckled man with his short hair parted to the side cleanly. He did not look the part, nor did he sound it. Though his smile and words were polite, he was far too collected, far too cold for job like this.

‘No, thanks.’ Alfred offered the same plastic smile back, his eyes still trained on the man. ‘What was your name again?’

The man’s smile faltered, before picking itself back up again. ‘I didn’t give you my name.’

‘What is it?’

‘Ying.’ The man said, wiping away at the bar. Alfred watched as he picked up the empty whisky glass on the bar, dried to the very last drop. And yet, it was only a glass. Could Arthur have really gotten that drunk on a single glass of whiskey? Doubting his own ability to read between truths and lies, natural behavior and performance, Alfred tapped his elbow in thought of this.

_I should have just left when I had the chance…_

Already past midnight, the bar was coated thickly in the tobacco smoke of nearby poker tables. Though the bartender had yet to return, strangers still laughed in drunken drawls, distorted and overtaken by the music that pounded, still pulsed like a frantic heartbeat.

The throbbing noise stabbed Alfred’s head, beckoning his migraine. Throat dry and humid air sticking the fabric of his shirt to his skin, Alfred got up from his seat. Searching for Arthur, searching for a place away from the red lights and bitter smoke, either would do to ease his headache.

‘Is everything alright?’ The bartender asked after him, but Alfred did not turn back. He pushed the bathroom door open, eyes settling on the cane propped up against the sink. Letting a small sigh draw out from his lips, he turned towards the stalls and hoped he would not have to carry Arthur home.

The stall doors were hung open, ajar and empty. Alfred blinked, pushing back each door as if to check if Arthur was hiding, though he knew this was not the case. He threw his head back to the cane, black handle glistening under the fluorescent lights.

 _He’s left it…_ Alfred grabbed the cane. His gaze roamed around the sink, drawn to the red splotches that were printed onto the sink faucets. Alfred tightened his grip on the cane, dropping his gaze to the tiled floor.

_Blood drops._

With swift steps, he turned back to the door, pushing it and letting it swing open. Stepping out, he felt his breaths become larger, harder to keep steady. Heartbeat, matching the throbbing music as Alfred whipped his head left to right. Red, everywhere. In the air, on his shirt, on the cold faucet that still remained vivid in his mind.

_Where?_

Though few beats had been strained out by his heart, Alfred’s thoughts raced by, streamlined by panic and frenzy.

_Where is he?_

Red, and he did not know –could not know! – what had happened to Arthur. All he was left with was the cane, and the droplets that beckoned the question.

_Whose is it?!!_

Footsteps echoed nearby, punctuating the trembling words of Alfred’s mind. The bartender entered the corridor, his expression calm as he approached Alfred.

‘Is something wrong?’ The man’s eyes trailed down to the cane in Alfred’s hands. ‘Is your friend ill?’ He looked up at Alfred, brows creased, though they mocked Alfred. Glassy eyes that lied - Alfred had grown far too used to them. A stranger, whose words had been coated in concern. What did he want?

_(There’s a long goodbye…)_

A rotten stench wafted into the air. A trail, a path to follow. Alfred turned to it, towards the end of the corridor, where a stairwell resided.

_(And it happens every day…)_

Running his gaze over the corridor, over the glossed floor, Alfred sure there was something. A musty smell, and…

_Blood drops. Smeared._

Alfred bolted up the stairs, ignoring the bartender’s protests. Running, cursing and praying. It couldn’t be - shouldn’t be - what he thought it was.

He reached an office door. Through the frosted glass window, he saw a pink tinge, a blur that sent his stomach boiling up from the inside.

‘Arthur!’

Alfred burst into the office, flooded by the musty and horribly familiar stench. Crimson, sprawled on the floor. Alfred gagged, though the sight of a mangled face was not new to him. He knelt to the figure, exhaling sharply in relief when he saw the long strands of dark hair tangled around the torn face.

‘Yong Soo…’ The bartender whispered behind him, his voice coarse. ‘Oh god…’ The man began to retch, doubled over by the desk and filling up the room further with a rotten stench.

Alfred stumbled back up, stabbing the cane onto the floor and letting it wobble as his weight pressed into it. Arthur was gone. He knew this…

Arthur had been swallowed up by the beast, or perhaps had become the beast himself. This, Alfred could not know. Ignorance was not bliss. It couldn’t be! Not with the panic lacing his breath, the fever that overtook him. Only a cane in his hands, and a trail of blood.

_(You know you’ve said,)_

A blindfold, and a flame to keep him company.

_(The long goodbye…)_

 

* * *

 

The car shuddered as it sped over the dirt road, head lights illuminating the tree lined path ahead.  Ivan eyed the silhouette of Katyusha’s head and shoulders as she gripped the steering wheel, and though it was incredibly dark in the car, he could feel her worried glances pointed at him in the rearview mirror.

He felt Yao’s head shift in his lap, the bundled coat rustling softly. Ivan’s hand felt for the scarf, still wrapped around Yao’s throat, brushing past it to touch warm skin. Feeling a gentle pulse beneath it, Ivan rested his hand back up on Yao’s shoulder. He should not have needed to feel it, should not have held his breath until he did. An hour’s drive it had been, and all the way through Katyusha had reassured him that Yao’s drowsiness was not hypothermia.

‘He’s tired, Ivan. Let him rest.’ She had told him, insisting that checking for Yao’s pulse every five minutes was not necessary. He was only sleeping, only resting, and yet Ivan still had the uneasy feeling that Yao was slipping away from him somehow. Falling away from his fingertips as easily as he had done so only hours ago…

The car passed by a lone streetlight, illuminating Yao’s face for a brief moment. Closed, Yao’s dark and wary eyes were hidden away, leaving his face pale and unperturbed. His hand was curled onto Ivan’s knee, blood drying beneath fingernails and palms reddened by scratches. Ivan reached for it, guilt festering in his chest as he held it.

_I’ve ruined you._

Broken, it seemed, as Ivan closed his fingers around Yao’s limp hand. It stung to hold him, pricked him like thorns. And though at first Ivan felt the pain in his hand, where the bite mark resided, it had quickly made its way across his throat and chest, thinning out his breath. It was a type of pain Ivan had not experienced before, though he was sure he had felt them all.

Yao’s fingers closed around his, coiling his hand further around Ivan and mumbling softly.

‘…the same…’

A smile tugged at Ivan’s lips, hesitant to show even in the dark. It was so warm, so incredibly warm… a chest wanting to burst, a chuckle wanting to escape. But it was stifled, trapped. Why was that?

_Perhaps it is not for me, this rose… Not for bad people like me._

But he had made Yao his own, twisted him and broken him into a shape no one else could accept. Just like the men who had broken Ivan, so did Ivan break Yao. Knowing this, he did not stop. Why was that?

_It’s the only way, isn’t it…?_

Dark eyes that burned, black eyes that drank up Ivan’s words and breath. They drew out everything, guided every delicate memory, every unspoken sentiment, until Ivan had found that there was little else to hide. And now, his scarf, the very last thing he had yet to part with, was wrapped around Yao’s neck. Why was that?

The car jolted, nearly knocking Ivan’s head against the roof of the car. Katyusha apologized, her soft voice interrupted midway by a muffled groan. She snapped her head back to Ivan.

‘Is that-?’

‘It’s not Yao.’

The car slowed to a halt. Katyusha turned in her seat, flipping on the lights in the car. Ivan squinted his eyes at the brightness of it, though he could still see Katyusha’s widened eyes lingering on his neck. He pulled his hand free of Yao’s to cover his throat, feeling the scar on it burn beneath the light.

Katyusha blinked, turning her gaze away. ‘I’m sorry, I…’ She swallowed. ‘That man I helped you put in the trunk… you didn’t kill him, did you?’

‘Did you want me to?’

‘No.’ Katyusha shook her head, lowering her voice when Yao shifted. ‘No, it’s just… I thought he was dangerous or something.’

‘He only needs to disappear.’ Ivan said. ‘He is not like the others. I cannot treat him in the same way.’

Katyusha nodded, her brows furrowed. ‘No, I… I understand, Ivan. I won’t stop you. But,’ Her gaze flickered to Yao, concern growing in her expression. ‘I’m not sure if this is best for Yao.’

‘I cannot kill him for being foolish, Katyusha. And neither can Yao.’

The muffled groans grew louder, becoming stumbled slurs and giggles. Katyusha looked to Ivan.

‘Just keep driving. Don’t worry about it.’ Ivan said, hand still sprawled onto his neck in an attempt to hide it entirely. Katyusha switched the lights off and started up the engine, the thrum of it drowning out the man’s voice.

Yao sighed in Ivan’s lap, hand blindly reaching for Ivan’s in the dark. Ivan let Yao’s slender fingers wrap around his wrist, guiding his hand back to the warmth of Yao’s hold. Thorns pricked him once again, awakening the crescent wound on his hand. He felt the congealed blood rip apart, inflaming the skin around it. But Ivan did not flinch, did not pull his hand away.

Velvet petals brushed over the burning wound, mending it and sweeping away the blood that had formed. Soft lips, pressed against it. Aching and trembling, Ivan’s hand still remained, fingers curling around Yao’s.

_Ochi chernye, it’s all yours… I’m afraid._


	17. Bittersweet

Bound tightly around the arms and legs, Arthur was held within a web of rope. Mouth gagged and head tied to the chair, he could not even turn to look behind himself. All he had for a view was a mottled wall, filthy looking even in the dark that Arthur's eyes had become adjusted to. His back muscles ached and itched to move, head throbbing from the bruise that sweltered overnight. But even so, Arthur could not contain his trembling excitement.

He was in the belly of the beast, within the very heart of the monster he had been after – who could ever live to tell the tale? Arthur had been handed the opportunity, the chance to rip the beast up from the inside and pick every bone, every tendon apart. To see how its muscles twitched, how its claws retracted, how sharp its fangs could bite. No one - no one but Arthur - could do this!

_Ah, I'm sorry Alfred… I've left you with all the boring work, haven't I?_

Arthur chuckled through the gag, muffled laughter echoing out in the empty room. Somehow, this was all so terribly amusing… Why was that? Arthur wasn't sure himself.

His giggles began to falter as the sight of the mottled wall stared back at him, overwhelming in its stillness. He could no longer see little patterns and faces in its grimy patches, as he did for the many hours since he'd woken up. Not even Alfred's face, which Arthur had somehow spotted in various little corners as he battled his boredom. When the itch of rough rope grating against his wrists no longer bothered him, it was this blank and tiring canvas that did, achingly uninteresting in its glare. God, how it was starting to sicken him.

He started to bounce his knees on the floor, listening for footsteps in the upstairs floor. He had heard something before, the soft pads of feet across floorboards. Curious, he quieted his own breath heaving through the gag, wanting to hear more of the beast that was surely prowling around. It was waiting perhaps, for the point at which Arthur's anticipation was unbearable. Expecting fear, high strung panic in Arthur's sweaty forehead. Waiting for his frightened whimpers and cries.

But Arthur would not give it the satisfaction. No, the tremor in his hands, the raggedness of his breath and the painful churning of his stomach – this was all excitement! Arthur was not afraid, not worried in the least… let his blood be drawn. Arthur would be taking away something much greater, much larger than petty flesh. He could feel his smile being crushed beneath the gag. It was only a waiting game for now.

Footsteps settled outside the room, sending Arthur's trembling shoulders to a standstill. There was a gentle click of a door opening, hinges creaking as barely audible footsteps entered the room. Though he twisted his head back to see, the rope held it in place, kept it facing towards the grimy wall.

The floorboards groaned behind him, footsteps stopping in place. A hand brushed against the back of his neck, untying the rope that fixed Arthur's head to the chair. Letting the rope fall over Arthur's shoulders, the hands quickly gripped the sides of Arthur's head.

'You woke me up…with your idiotic laugh.'

'Morning, Yao.' Arthur said, though it sounded out as an incomprehensible muffle through the gag. He tried to turn his head back to look at him, but Yao's hands held him still. The cool pads of fingertips pressed into Arthur's temple, dragging down to close around his throat. They began to squeeze, tightening around the bruises that had been left from yesterday.

Arthur choked, a breath caught between the delicate fingers that bit into his neck. The filthy wall in front of him began to fade, falling in and out of complete blackness as his windpipe was closing in, crumbling beneath Yao's hands.

Still trembling, still struggling to breath – was this excitement? The frantic images of his father's face in the wall, staring as the pressure behind Arthur's eyes built. Smiling, as Arthur's croaks were lost in the fabric of the gag. Laughing, as Arthur wished this would not be the last sight he saw. No, this was not excitement, not even fear. What was it called? This –

Yao's hands released Arthur's throat, air rushing in to his lungs so fast that they felt as if to burst. The stale stench of the gag tasted sweeter as Arthur gulped the air, his head falling limply when relief swept over him. He would not die with that horrid wall in front of him, not with that face in it…

Yao pulled the back of Arthur's chair away from the wall, tilting it so that Arthur could see the ceiling above him. Yao's face peered into his hazy field of vision, dark eyes like deep pools of black water boring into him.

'I guess you're more fun alive than dead...' Yao said, brows furrowing. He tilted the chair from side to side, inspecting Arthur like a cat who was having trouble deciding if he was food or entertainment. 'But I'm still not sure why Ivan would bother to keep you.'

Arthur mumbled through the gag to reply, words sounding out as groans in the empty room. He winced as his voice ripped through his raw throat.

'What was that?'

Arthur chuckled as the room began to sway around him, though the chair was held still. He mumbled the words again. Surely, he could guess?

Yao frowned. 'I'm not taking off the gag, if that's what you're trying to make me do.'

Arthur raised his brows as if to plead. _Come on, love. Don't you want a proper conversation?_

'I'm not going to take off the gag.' Yao loosened his grip on the chair, letting it slam back onto the ground. 'Don't expect me to feed you, either. I didn't choose to have you-'

The door creaked open, Yao's voice faltering. After a pause, the flutter of a small breath, a soft voice spoke.

' _Myshka_ , I'm afraid that man isn't someone to toy with.' Heavier footsteps entered the room, floorboards creaking beneath them. There was a silence that fell after each step. Where had Yao gone? Not even shadows could help Arthur guess in the dim light of the room.

'I wasn't 'toying' with him.' Yao snapped back, though steadiness of his voice trembled. 'Ivan, your neck…'

'You don't remember, _myshka_?'

'Who is this myshka?' Arthur said through the gag, the question distorted and faded from the moment they left his lips. He struggled in the chair, shaking it with the thrashing of his shoulders.

 _This ugly wall!_ Even as Arthur craned his neck as far as it could go, stretching and pulling fresh bruises, he could not see. Sickened, made nauseous by the face that crept up in the paint of the wall, he called out with a voice that scraped his throat. But even so, he was ignored. Hushed voices continued as if Arthur had not been there, groaning and shuffling in the chair like an idiot.

'It keeps you warm, _da_? Keep it.'

'I can't. It's…' Yao's voice trailed off, a pause settling into a long stretch of silence. Arthur rocked the chair from side to side, cursing through the gag. He was their captive, their _bloody_ dinner! How could they just ignore him? The more Arthur spoke, the more it scorched his throat, the less he cared. Giving up on words, he only yelled for the sake of it.

The rustle of fabric whispered in the empty room, somehow still audible past Arthur's voice.

'It's a part of you, isn't it…?'

Arthur jerked his shoulders into the chair, sending it tipping over backwards. The ceiling seemed to fly away from him as his back slammed into the floor. The air nearly knocked out of his lungs, Arthur gasped, drawing in his own sticky breath from the gag.

He rolled his eyes up, toward the two men that now stared down at him, silent.

 _There you are, my dear boy!_ Arthur laughed, the sound of it more of a croak than anything else. Yao only looked back at him with widened eyes, a bundled up scarf in his hands. That expression, so well worn… was that fear?

Arthur's gaze drifted towards the taller man, a red mark sprawled over his throat like the massive hand of a demon.

 _Ivan, I presume…_ _and oh my, the scars you've collected!_

Yao threw the scarf over Ivan's throat, hiding the scar away with frantic hands. An apology was mumbled, caught in Arthur's curious ears.

'Do not worry about it, _myshka._ ' Ivan adjusted the scarf, a smile blooming on his lips. The smile faded as he turned towards Arthur, approaching him with footsteps that boomed in Arthur's ears.

'This is not comfortable, _da?_ ' Ivan sighed as he knelt down beside Arthur's face. ' _Izvini._ But there is not much I can do...'

Arthur mumbled through the gag, voice slurred as a searing headache began to emerge. Two words. Only two, and they could not guess?

'You want to speak?'

Arthur nodded, wincing when the bruises around his throat became unsettled and stung. Ivan pulled the gag down. Arthur inhaled, swallowing up the cool air. He hacked and coughed, taking a moment to muster up his strength. Only two words…

Well… perhaps three considering the circumstances.

'Merry bloody Chri…' Arthur's hoarse voice cracked, a soundless chuckle overtaking him. Yao and Ivan only watched, brows creasing together as the laughter in Arthur's throat rose up further into the stale air. Choked and broken, sound finally ripped out of his throat like the sound of an injured animal. But it was not pain, not even fear that made Arthur laugh like this.

No, not fear… Arthur's whole body shook and ached, skin trembling and glistening with sweat. So much to look forward to, so much to anticipate! This… this was excitement! A drop of sweat rolled down his face, a question arising from it as it trickled smoothly across his cheek.

When his laughter died out, Arthur only had to wonder.

Why was he not smiling?

* * *

 

Alfred choked on the bitter smoke, coughing out the wispy puffs into the air. He smacked his lips, a grimace settling on his face. Though he was overwhelmed by stench of tobacco, he could still taste blood in his mouth, tinging it with its metallic flavor. It didn't matter how much coffee he drank, nor how much he smoked, the taste of it still lingered, still rang on his tongue freshly. As if to hold on to him, to plague Alfred until he could let go of the goddamn cane he was still holding by his side.

No one had asked any questions when he turned up late at the office, dragging a cane he didn't need alongside him. Mornings were the most grueling, the time at which the knives that stabbed his head were sharpest. And though the painkillers were always there, at the bottom of his bedside drawer, he never picked them up. Never opened the drawer even when he was nauseous from the pain, because surely there was a pain far greater waiting for him if he were to reach over and open it.

'You've left me with all the difficult stuff, haven't you?' Alfred put the cigarette in his lips again, drawing in its bitter taste. Seated alone on this frozen bench, it was easy to hear him, to hear echoes of Arthur's spoken words.

_(Not knowing…)_

This, and the cane in Alfred's hand, was all that was left. Why did it leave a bloody taste in his mouth? A familiar ache in his head and voices that persisted?

_(You know why, Alfred.)_

'No, I don't know…' Alfred said, the cloud of his breath intermingling with the cigarette smoke. 'I don't know…' He let the cigarette fall to the snow covered ground, crushing it with his shoe. Even as it was buried away in the snow, Alfred continued to grind it until it hit the cement, pressing it until it flattened beneath his foot.

'Please forgive me for disturbing you, but…' Alfred snapped his head up to find Kiku in front of him, gloved hands trembling as they extended a file towards him. 'I thought you would want to read the transcript…'

'Of what?'

'Jin Wang's interview.'

'We didn't need one.' Alfred said, hand itching to light another cigarette, though the thought of tasting smoke again sickened him. 'He's not the guy we're looking for.'

'We'll have to wait for the print analysis to come back to confirm that.' Kiku pulled the file away. 'The forensics team managed to get a clean one off the murder weapon.'

'Yeah?' Alfred said, gaze drifting off into the footprints of a bird hopping across the snow. He eyed the little marks it left behind, how delicate they were. So easy to erase. Someone should be watching this, Alfred thought, in case they faded away.

'Y-Yes.' Kiku shifted in his balance. 'Um, Alfred? If you do not mind me asking…'

Alfred turned to Kiku. 'Yes?'

Kiku blinked, eyes flickering to the bench space next to Alfred. 'That photo… is that…?'

Alfred turned to the side, picking up the photo that had collected flecks of frost. He blew them off and handed the picture to Kiku.

'Yeah. It is.' Alfred said, a small smile tugging on his lips. 'After all this time, I'm back to square one. My first lead, remember?'

Kiku frowned, his hands still shaking as he held the photo. 'Yes. I remember. Before we had over seventy victims…' He held onto the photo for a breath of silence, the crease between his brows deepening.

Kiku looked up, thrusting the photo back to Alfred, a sudden animosity in his demeanor. Alfred blinked, taking the photo from his hands. There was a spark of some kind in Kiku's eyes, though Alfred could not quite pinpoint the emotion behind it. But whatever it was, it was unrestrained in a way that Kiku never was.

Kiku's expression softened, darting his eyes away. 'I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

Kiku sat next to Alfred on the bench. 'I made a mistake.'

 _A mistake…?_ Alfred turned to look at Kiku, his face vacant as if staring off into something far away. Alfred wondered what he was looking at, what Kiku was seeing within his dark and listless eyes. Perhaps the lives of seventy men and women, cut short by the very same man Kiku had dismissed as a false lead all those months ago. Yes, maybe…

Alfred slapped his hand onto Kiku's shoulder, jolting him out of his trance. 'You didn't make a mistake, man. You did everything by the book.'

Kiku's brows furrowed as he turned to look at Alfred. 'By the book…?'

'Dude, I'm the idiot here. I mean – ' Alfred chuckled, lifting the photo up. 'I saw this bastard last night! Staring right at me, and I didn't do anything about it! I didn't do anything… and I… I lost him!'

'Alfred…'

As if the trees themselves needed to breathe, a gust of air coursed through them, shaking the leaves and the photo that flapped in Alfred's hand. Yao's face, flickering in the wind to remind him just how easy, how simple, it was to disappear.

He winced, a searing pain surging through his temple. Clutching at it, Alfred's back arched over his knees as he waited for the pain to subside. Burning up, scorching through his skull and leaving it aching. Only for a few seconds, this pain, a moment and it would be gone –

_(She looks so much like you… What happened to her?)_

'N-No…' Alfred shook his head, fingers curling into his hair. Eating away, burying itself into his head like a starved parasite. 'Don't ask me that. Don't –'

_(I don't know. She just…)_

'Alfred!' A hand touched his shoulder, trembling through the gloves. 'Are you okay?'

Alfred exhaled sharply, loosening his hands over his head as the pain began to dull away. '…Y-Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.' He forced a chuckle. 'Just… this stupid migraine, is all. I can deal with it.'

'It would be better for you to stay inside the office.' Kiku said, lifting his hand off Alfred's shoulder. 'I have some aspirin, if you need it.'

Alfred nodded, lifting his head up though remnants of the headache still lingered. As he walked with Kiku, stabbing the cane into the ground as he did so, he looked for the little bird that had been prancing around on the snow. Searching for it, trailing his eyes over the icy blanket for those tiny little marks and hoping it would still be there. But they had been swept away by the wind, the bird nowhere to be seen.

 _Blood drops…_ Alfred could taste them once again on his lips. It sickened him.

* * *

Yao let the vodka glass spin on the table, watching it spiral away. As it teetered over the edge of the table, he caught it in his hand, placing it back on the table to begin again. The kitchen was getting dark, the light of the sky having faded into deep purple. It had been orange when Ivan left the house. How many hours was that? Yao had not checked, but he felt that it was surely more than just a few hours. An eternity was more like it, of spinning glass and the sound of a car engine humming away in the distance replaying in his head.

Ivan had left him on his own, disappearing behind the front door to greet Katyusha and drive off to yet another bloody errand. Only Yao had been left behind. Granted, it had been Yao's fault to begin with that the pick-up truck was now left on some faraway highway, and Ivan would need Katyusha's car from now on to get around from place to place, but even so –

The glass fell off the table, Yao's hand shooting out to catch it midair. He sighed, placing it back onto the table.

_Even so… couldn't he have stayed for a bit longer?_

Of the night before, Yao's memory was hazy. He remembered the Poisoned Apple, the pulsing red lights and the shrieks of Yong Soo ringing in his ears. The scratches on Yao's palms would not let him forget that, itching as if Yong Soo's blood was still trapped within the wounds. He closed his hand around the glass, pressing welted lines against its cool surface. But he could also remember Ivan's hold on him, the hum of the car engine as he held Ivan's hand close.

Yao drew out a long breath and rested his head sideways against the surface of the table, pressing his ear into it. It was wooden and empty, nothing like the warmth Yao could vaguely recall from the night before. He had fallen asleep in Ivan's arms, as far as his vague memory was concerned. He could recount the way the mattress sank as Ivan laid next to him, the heaviness of his own breath as Ivan pulled him in towards his chest.

But it had all faded away by morning, Yao waking up to an empty bed, the scarf still wrapped around his throat. He doubted if Ivan had ever stayed at all, if perhaps Yao had only been dreaming when he felt the beating of Ivan's heart throughout the night.

 _Ivan..._ Yao began to tip the vodka glass from side to side on the table. _You should have stayed here. We should have just stayed like that…_

Yao's stomach stirred with unease. It was worse than an itch, or an ache in his chest. He sought feel Ivan's pulse again, to close his eyes next to him and melt away like he had the night before. But Yao couldn't, and that sent his stomach coiling up into a tangled knot of nervous anticipation. When Ivan returned, would he let Yao stay close to him? Somehow Yao felt that it wasn't quite so simple, that last night had been an exception of sorts. The thought left him desperately hoping this wasn't the case.

' _Can you recognize the theme, on some other street...'_

Yao lifted his head up from the table, hearing the muffled singing slur behind walls.

' _Two people meet, as in a dream.'_

Laughter rang out – the same idiotic laughter Yao had woken up to this morning. Shoving the vodka glass towards the middle of the table, Yao got out of the chair. Had Ivan forgotten to put the gag back on? Somehow Yao doubted this, though there wasn't much explanation otherwise. He walked down into the basement, throwing the door open to find the man grinning in the chair.

' _If the heart is quicker than the eye, they could be…_ ' Arthur chuckled, his head lolling to the side. ' _They could be…_ What could they be, Yao?'

Yao let the door close behind him, eyeing the gag loosely hanging from Arthur's neck. ' _You_ could be dead, if you don't behave.'

'I could be dead, if you don't feed me.'

Yao approached Arthur, wary of the distance between their feet. 'Who said I was feeding you?'

'No one in particular.' Arthur smiled, his voice still croaky as he spoke. 'But Ivan's left you here with me, hasn't he? I suppose he intends you to sort out all the… domestic affairs.'

Yao reached for the gag around Arthur's throat, yanking it like the leash of a misbehaved dog. As the fabric dug into the now purple bruises, Arthur winced, though the smile stayed fresh.

'I'm practically yours!' Arthur's cracked lips stretched further, breaking into a hoarse chuckle.

'Are you, now?' Yao picked at the knot of the gag, undoing it and pulling the strip of cloth away. 'Then behave. And keep your mouth shut.'

'And if I don't?'

Yao straightened out the gag, unfolding it and ironing out its crinkles with his fingers. He folded it in half and pulled it taut between his hands. He looked back up at Arthur, who stared back with eyes half lidded in laziness.

'What? You won't tell me?' Arthur said. 'Or is that Ivan's decision?'

Yao's fingers bit into the fabric, repulsed by how Ivan's name sounded on this man's tongue. It was tossed into the air like it was dust, a meaningless speck that happened to have a name.

'If you really want to find out,' Yao said, words measured out and steadied. 'Why don't you go for it?'

'Go for what?'

Yao untied the rope around Arthur's hands and chest, kneeling down untie the rope binding Arthur's legs to the chair as well. Yao stood up and looked at Arthur.

'The door is only a few steps away.' Yao said, wrapping the gag around his own palm. 'Go for it.'

Arthur stared back, brows furrowing in uncertainty before a warm smile swept across his lips. 'That's very kind of you…' Arthur stretched his arms and legs out, getting up from the chair. He rubbed his reddened wrists. 'Sitting in that chair for several hours was an absolute nightmare!'

'I'm sure it was.' Yao said, pulling on the end of the gag so that it tightened around his hand, squeezing on the aching wounds. He eyed Arthur's slender frame, looking for the joints that would break most easily. A bruised throat, knees that trembled, a feverishly pale face – the man was ready to be snapped into little pieces.

_But I want you to run._

Arthur slumped back into the seat, sighing. 'Ah, but I'm very tired, my dear boy. I don't think I'll be making my escape today.'

Yao frowned. 'I wasn't allowing you to leave. I was _telling_ you to.'

Arthur shrugged, back slipping in the chair. 'But I'm more fun alive than dead, aren't I?'

Yao blinked, his tangled hands stopping still. Arthur smiled.

'I'm not an idiot, Yao. I know what happens if I misbehave.' Arthur folded his arms and crossed his legs. 'But I'm curious. What happens if _you_ misbehave?'

'What do you mean, 'if I misbehave'?' Yao wrenched his one hand away from the knot he had created between his hands. 'I'm not the one trapped here.'

'Ah…' Arthur nodded, gaze trailing off. 'So Ivan wouldn't mind if he knew about this?'

'About what? Shutting you up?'

'About not shutting me up.'

Yao felt the fabric tense between his fingers, pulled taut so that it might rip apart. Arthur burst into laughter, his hands reaching for his bruised throat as the chuckles broke off into coughs.

'But you've, uh…' Arthur wheezed. 'You've done quite the damage, I must say.' He glanced up at Yao, the smile of his outburst still creeping on his lips. 'You're a lot stronger than you look, myshka.'

'Don't call me that.'

'But that's what he calls you, isn't it?' Arthur leant back in the chair, hand smoothing over his throat. Yao watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, marred skin shifting and stretching over it. Teasing Yao, defying him as the irritating voice continued on. 'Myshka… Pet name, I presume?'

Yao let the gag loosen in his grip, the fabric tumbling down to the floor as his hands itched for something else.

_(Myshka…)_

The memory of Ivan's voice rang so sweetly, burying itself in Yao's chest. It would be back, wouldn't it? This pathetic man's imitation of it would not be the last time Yao would hear it, surely. And yet it was so quiet, silent so that Yao could almost hear his own heart thumping uneasily, lopsidedly as if missing a chunk. He would be back, Yao knew that, but he could not shake off the itch in his hands, the cold air seizing his lungs.

_But is he ever going to hold me like that again?_

Arthur only stared, waiting for Yao's answer as if he had been seated on a throne and not in his own prison, watching in curiosity. Repulsion crawled on Yao's skin as he felt the man's eyes trained on him.

'Cat got your tongue, myshka?'

Yao's gaze flickered to meet Arthur's, considering his words before letting them tumble out. 'You're hungry, aren't you?'

A pause, uncertainty before Arthur spoke. 'Yes. Bloody starving.'

'Then I'll bring you something.'

'Ah, tha-'

Yao left the room before Arthur could finish, hurrying out of the basement and hopping up the rough wooden stairs with icy feet. Walking into the kitchen, he could feel his hands trembling at his sides. Yao steadied them on the handle of a drawer, pulling it open to find the cutlery. He picked out the sharpest knife he could find, gripping it so that it was hidden in his oversized sleeve.

The basement was colder when Yao had returned, feeling as though his breath should have a cloud when he exhaled. He let the door swing shut behind him, watching Arthur furrow his brows in confusion.

'Is something wro-'

Yao yanked Arthur up by the collar, throwing him against the wall. Arthur crumpled onto the floor, wheezing as he struggled to catch his knocked out breath. Yao did not give him the chance, dragging his feet away from the wall so that Arthur fell with his back to the floor. Yao grabbed the loose rope from beside the chair, turning Arthur over to tie his hands behind his back.

'You… only needed… to ask…' Arthur forced out a chuckle, chest heaving against the floor.

'This is not something you would agree to.' Yao pulled out the knife, seating himself on Arthur's back to pin him down. He grabbed Arthur's chin, tilting his head up with one hand. Yao pried his mouth open, pinching Arthur's tongue between his thumb and forefinger and holding it out. He brought the gleaming knife towards Arthur's face, feeling him panic and tremble beneath him.

'Keep still, or the cut won't be as clean.'

Arthur struggled, knocking his shoulders side to side. Yao muttered a curse and leaned down closer to press his weight on Arthur's shoulders. He brought the knife to Arthur's lips, touching it on his tongue. Arthur groaned and shook his head, his tongue slipping away from Yao's fingers. Yao reached further into his mouth to retrieve it, Arthur's teeth snapping shut on his thumb and forefinger, piercing into them.

Yao hissed and tugged his hand away, though his fingers were caught between Arthur's teeth. Like pointed fangs of a bear trap they dug deeper into his skin, pressure building until skin broke and bled. Yao screamed, feeling teeth tear through flesh and threaten to snap into bone. He lifted his knife welding hand and stabbed Arthur's shoulder. Arthur groaned and released Yao's hand, allowing Yao to roll off of him.

Lying on his side, Yao cradled his hand, dark blood dripping from it. He swallowed, sweat dotting his forehead as an ache spread throughout his hand. The surface of it burned as if lit on fire, but beneath the torn skin it throbbed as if his bones had been hollowed out. Tears stung his eyes, Yao biting back a cry of pain. He looked up at Arthur lying on the floor, limp as if the battle was over.

'You…' Arthur croaked, weak laughter bubbling out of him. 'You told me to keep my mouth shut.'

Yao stumbled up, panting as he held his dripping hand with the other. 'It's going to hurt a lot more now. You know that, don't you?' He staggered towards Arthur, yanking the knife out of his shoulder. Arthur cried, wincing.

'Yes… I know that.'

Yao kicked Arthur's side, knocking him over so that he lay on his back. Yao loosened his grip on the knife, fiddling with it as he toyed with the ideas brimming in his head. Where would he start? What piece should he break first?

Yao kneeled by Arthur's legs, picking one up. 'You were carrying a cane when I met you. Is there something wrong with your legs?'

'N…No…' Arthur swallowed, shifting uncomfortably as his hands remained tied beneath his back. 'It's just… part of my image, I suppose.'

Yao set his leg back down on the floor. He watched Arthur's expression soften, though it still trembled in cold anticipation. Arthur's green eyes had lost the keen spark in them, his lips no longer curled in a dry smile. There was not even a flinch, as Yao tore the trouser fabric around Arthur's calf. He only lay there, docile like a lamb thrown into the slaughterhouse.

 _Only makes it easier,_ Yao thought, bringing the tip of the knife to the top of Arthur's pale calf. He heard Arthur's ragged breaths stop, as if contained within his shivering frame. Yao looked up at Arthur's face, finding his eyes squeezed shut.

The knife tip wavered, and though Yao's left hand still pulsed with searing pain, Yao brought the knife back into his lap.

'Hey.'

Arthur opened his eyes, glancing at Yao. 'Yes?'

'Do you _want_ to be cut up?'

'N-No.' Arthur frowned, body still shaking. 'Why are you asking?'

'I haven't tied your legs up. But you're not even kicking me.'

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, only to close it without saying a word. He stared at the ceiling, his face paling though Yao had been sure it was already white as porcelain. Arthur snatched his gaze away from the ceiling, vacantly looking into a distance behind Yao.

'I can't really do anything either way.' Arthur said, voice soft and murmured. 'I'm a beastly child, but somebody always has the leash...'

'What was that?' Yao leaned forward, watching as angular features melded and rounded on Arthur's face.

'Alfred would be so disappointed…' Arthur's eyes trailed toward Yao. 'I'm going to rot here, aren't I? Leave me to my own devices and I'll rot away.' Cracked lips stretched into a smile. 'You don't even have to cut me up. I'll end up doing it myself anyway, to get rid of it…'

'Get rid of what?'

Arthur's smile faded, gaze flickering as if reading something in Yao's eyes. 'You let it live inside you. But it keeps you warm, feeds you. Mine… Mine doesn't do that.'

Yao's brows knit together. 'I don't understand what you're saying.'

Arthur turned his head back to the ceiling with a sigh, shutting his eyes. 'Please don't keep me waiting, Yao. I'd like this to be over with.'

Yao blinked, looking down at the knife in his hands, stained in both his and Arthur's blood. What was it he was trying to do again? The knife gleamed back at him, feeling foreign in his hands. Expecting to see Ivan's reflection in it, to feel his cold hand when Yao held it… but it was only empty silver.

Yao let the knife fall to his side. He pulled the torn fabric of Arthur's trousers over to cover up the shivering skin of his leg, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his left hand. Arthur opened his eyes, widening them when Yao pulled him up off the floor and set him onto the chair.

'What…' Arthur asked, slumped in the chair with his hands still tied behind his back. Yao untied them, discarding the rope onto the floor beside his feet. Arthur's gaze followed the rope to the floor, traveling back up to Yao with a frown. 'Why are you doing this?'

Yao said nothing, flickering his gaze away. He picked the knife up from the floor, leaving the basement and shutting the door behind him. The evening light had darkened, the kitchen area almost pitch black. He felt a droplet slip off his index finger, splattering onto the tiled floor.

' _Myshka_.'

Yao walked into what he had thought was a wall, bumping into it only to recognize the cold air lingering around it. Soft fabric, flecks of ice melting on it. Yao felt the lump in his chest jump up into his throat, hearing the echo of the knife clanging against the floor.

'Ivan?' Yao looked up, the dim moonlight only allowing him to see the faint outline of Ivan's frame. He reached forward, letting his hand fall on the outline of Ivan's shoulder and following its shape, trailing up until his fingers brushed against Ivan's cool cheek. A soft chuckle bubbled out of Yao's throat, forgetting about the torn state of his other hand. 'You were gone for so long…'

Yao's hand froze, Ivan's cold hand resting upon it. But even so, it made him feel so much warmer. As if he had been holding his breath since Ivan left, he felt the air in his lungs ease out, sweeping over his chest.

'Yao…' Ivan's fingers slid between Yao's, intertwining with them. 'Why is there blood?'

Yao pulled his hand away, self-conscious of the red stains on it. He felt Ivan reach for his other hand, taking hold of it by the wrist. Ivan's fingers swept over the open gash, stinging the wound. Yao bit back a yelp, hand twitching as he willed himself not to flinch away.

'It's…It's just a small bite.' Yao chuckled, not being able to see Ivan's hands in the dark, but feeling them mold over the torn skin, pressing over it as if to shield his hand. Squeezing, closing the gap between their hands. Yao squirmed as the wound stung, aching bones screeching with pain.

Ivan sighed, softening his grip. 'I told you that man wasn't someone to toy with.'

'I wasn't 'toying' with him!' Yao said, though he felt guilt sprout in his chest. Uninvited, the sight of Arthur's eyes shut was replayed before Yao, the very same tremor repeated over and over in his head. 'I told him I would bring him something to eat...'

'Do not worry about that now, _myshka_.' Ivan's hand traveled up to Yao's elbow, guiding him through to the kitchen table. 'Let's clean up your wound first.'

* * *

  _He's so warm…_

Ivan could feel Yao's hand tremble in his, twitching as he wiped away the blood with the antiseptic drenched towel. The bite had been severe, the open gash still streaming with blood and leaving the entire towel stained red. Ivan pressed the wet towel onto the gash, Yao flinching as he did so.

Ivan smoothed his thumb across Yao's wrist in apology, keeping his eyes trained on the darkened towel and his own pale hand resting on top of it. He wasn't sure if Yao had forgiven him or not, could not see if he had smiled in return – but Ivan did not glance up to find out. He only watched as his own hand began to quiver, weakening in its grip.

_He's not even pulling away from me._

If Ivan pressed harder on the wound, would Yao still leave his hand limp in Ivan's? If Ivan poured vodka into the bleeding gash, would Yao only sit there and bite back a cry? Surely not… surely, if Ivan were to hurt him, Yao would leave again.

He lifted the towel from the wound to check if the bleeding had stopped, but dark blood rose from the gash as soon as he removed it. Ivan pressed the towel back onto Yao's hand, though he was afraid to press too hard. Press too hard, hurt him too much, and surely Ivan would lose him.

Yao's hand shifted beneath his, perhaps wanting to pull away. Ivan glanced up at him, already dreading the sound of Yao's footsteps.

'Sorry.' An unsteady exhale left Yao's lips. 'It's going to need stitches, isn't it?'

'The wound is not too deep _._ ' Ivan said, feeling the knot in his stomach ease. 'It might not need stitches.'

Yao nodded, wincing as Ivan peeled away the towel and wrapped the gauze around Yao's hand. Still trembling, still quivering in Ivan's hand as if overtaken by a fever. Ivan looked up at Yao, finding his lips pursed as if to restrain himself. Ivan reached up to brush away the hair from Yao's face, strands of it matted against his forehead. Yao's skin was glistened in sweat, scorching hot to Ivan's touch.

'I'm afraid I don't have any painkillers, _myshka_.'

Dark eyes flitted up to meet Ivan's. 'I didn't ask for any.'

'But I do have vodka.'

Yao frowned. 'I don't think that's a good idea.'

'I'll make sure to lock the doors this time, _da_?' Ivan chuckled, smoothing his hand over the top of Yao's hair. Following the silk strands to the back of Yao's head, Ivan pulled the ponytail loose. A dark curtain fell across Yao's shoulders, hair tumbling loose to frame his face.

Yao's expression softened. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologize.' Ivan wrapped a lock of hair around his finger, letting it unwind and fall back with the rest of Yao's hair. 'I pushed you away, didn't I?'

'I left you alone on Christmas Eve.'

'Finding you was not difficult.'

'And then I bit you.'

'It'll heal.'

'And then I made you kidnap an idiot.'

'He's not so bad.' Ivan hummed. 'It's nice to have more friends, isn't it?'

Yao blinked, unimpressed. 'He's not my friend. Friends don't bite.'

'They don't?' Ivan said, watching Yao as his words and expression became animated.

'What do you mean 'they don't?'? Of course they don't!' Yao said, the weariness in his face overtaken by a pink flush.

_Warm…_

Though Ivan was no longer holding Yao's hand, he could feel the warmth linger in his palm, fading and growing cold. He wanted it to last a bit longer, to hold Yao's trembling hand again, but Ivan was hesitant to do so. He could not break Yao any further, would not let himself ruin skin that was already covered in scars – and already there were so many. No, Ivan had already done enough damage.

'You're not drunk, are you? I can't smell any vodka, though…'

Ivan blinked, Yao having stood up from his chair to stand over him. Dark eyes bored into him, swallowing Ivan up and drowning him faster than he could gasp for air. Yao took hold of Ivan's face, delicate fingers scorching his skin and causing him to flinch. He was so incredibly close… unconsciously and unintentionally, surely Ivan would hurt him like this.

Yao seemed to understand this, his dark eyes flickering as if reading something in Ivan's own. His hand trailed down beneath Ivan's jaw, touching the brim of his scarf.

'Could you show me?' Yao asked, his voice softening. 'Your scar? I want to see it.'

'Which one?' Ivan said, almost able to taste Yao's breath. 'I have so many…'

Yao tugged at his scarf, fingers gripping the hem of it just as they had the night before. Tentative, as if treading on thin ice. Ivan wanted to respond, to tell him that it was okay -

_(it's not)_

\- but the words had lumped themselves in his throat. He nodded, swallowing back down the lump in his throat.

Yao's other hand shifted down to his throat, loosening the scarf. Ivan could feel the air tease against his neck, could feel the flickering kitchen light glare at the hideous scar. This was not new; Ivan had already showed Yao this mark of his, let him see it in the daylight. And yet, there was something terrifying about opening himself up now, with Yao so close and his hands so warm.

Resisting the urge to cover up his throat, Ivan folded his hands in his lap, clammy palms squeezed together. The scarf slithered off him, falling into a bundle on top of his hands. Leaving him exposed, cut open to the world – it made the lump rise back up again from his stomach and into his throat, choking him. He felt warm fingers brush over the one side of his neck, trailing over to the other side where the ugly mark resided.

'How did this happen?' Yao asked, and it wasn't until Ivan heard his voice that he realized he had shut eyes closed. But even so, Ivan did not want to open them, did not want to see the reflection of his own scar in Yao's eyes. Hearing Yao, feeling him close by, that was enough for Ivan.

'I burnt myself.' Ivan croaked out, Yao's hand tensing on his throat. 'With a lighter.'

'Why?'

_(tell him you don't know)_

Ivan shook his head. 'I…'

_(you don't have to answer that)_

'I wanted to burn it away… the numbers.'

Yao's finger traced over his skin. 'Some of it's still…' His finger halted, voice hesitating.

'I know. Some of it's still there.'

There was a silence in the pitch black Ivan had chosen to cloak himself in, and not even Yao's breaths seemed to reach his ears. He furrowed his brows, hands fidgeting in his lap.

'But…' Ivan said, the sickening feeling in his stomach lurching up. 'That's not the only reason I burnt myself. At the asylum I was in, there was a man that would visit me every week. He was a police officer, but he was not there to protect anyone. He – '

_(Don't make me cut your tongue out, you little shit.)_

'I let him touch me.' Ivan felt the lump grow in his throat, an acidic taste pooling in his mouth. 'He touched me and made everything painful, made every part of me disgusting.'

_(Scream, you piece of shit!)_

'So I stabbed him until he bled to death.'

A choked sob was caught in Ivan's throat, no longer seeing black nothingness. No, it was his blood he was seeing. His blackened, rotten blood drowning him, streaming down Ivan's cheeks.

'Ivan…'

The fabric of a shirt pressed against Ivan's face, Yao's hands wrapped around him. A soft pulse, thudding by Ivan's ear, whispering to him. But Ivan could feel the black blood seep through into Yao, soaking his shirt. The heart still pulsed, but it was quickening in panic, in fear because there was a monster beside it. Yao would be poisoned by him, would get his hands stained in the hideous blood Ivan carried.

_Ochi chernye, I've already broken you… why won't you run?_

'Ivan, please…'

_I'm not Ivan. I'm not…_

'Don't cry.' Yao rested his cheek on the top of Ivan's head, stroking his hair. 'It wasn't your fault.'

Ivan shook his head against Yao's chest – of course it was his fault! He should have fought back, should have never let that man trap him in the first place. But he didn't. He let the man drag him by the arm to the same bloodstained tiles every week, let him ruin every part of Ivan with his callused and filthy hands. And now Ivan was a monster, too.

'I killed him…' Ivan muffled into Yao's shirt, squeezing his eyes shut though it didn't stop the image of the man's mangled body flashing before Ivan, the memory of a bloody mirror shard gleaming in his hand. 'I tore him up and left.'

'You did what you had to do. He deserved it.' Yao brushed his fingers through Ivan's hair, voice soft and low. 'I would have done it for you, too…'

Yao's hands lifted Ivan's face by the chin, sweeping over his cheeks to wipe away at tears. These warm hands, that tore open men's chests, that gouged their eyes, streaked their faces in blood – the very same hands that brushed like feathers over Ivan's skin. Ivan had seen beauty in Yao's cold expression when he held a bloody knife in his trembling hands, but this soft smile that Yao was wearing now… an old void in his chest seemed to be filled by it, the ache of it alleviated.

'You're melting…' Yao said, thumbs still brushing away at tears though they had all dried up. A chuckle bubbled up from Yao's throat. 'Ivan, you're melting away.'

'I'm not Ivan.' He croaked out, feeling the ink on the skin of his throat still crawl and sting. '22105… I'm still 221-'

Yao hushed him, fingers brushing over his lips with a clumsy sweep. 'You're Ivan.' Yao leaned forward into Ivan's lap, folding one leg to rest on Ivan's knee for support. Ivan felt his stomach stir, the weight of Yao on him burning up his skin. Yao's fingertips brushed away the hair from Ivan's forehead, quivering in their trail.

'You're…' Yao trailed off, dark eyes wavering as their irises watched Ivan's lips. He cupped the side of Ivan's throat, warmth seeping into it as Yao's hand caressed. Yao shifted in Ivan's lap, sliding his arms to coil around Ivan's neck. His forehead, still glistening in a feverish sheen, pressed against Ivan's.

'I'm what?' Ivan said, voice uneven as he spoke. Not quite knowing what to do with his hands, he rested them on top of Yao's thigh, though they more so hovered uneasily than anything else.

'You're usually so cold.' A shaky chuckle escaped Yao's lips, his breath soft on Ivan. 'But I think we're both melting here…'

'If you have a fever, _myshka_ ,' Ivan swallowed, wanting to drink in the scent of Yao had it not been suffocating him. 'Then perhaps you…' Fabric rustled as Yao shifted in his lap again, stirring up the fluttery feeling deep in Ivan's stomach. Ivan's eyelids fell, Yao's arms slithering closed around Ivan. 'Perhaps you should-'

Warm lips pressed against his, seizing them mid-sentence. Fingers curled around the back of his head, pulling him in closer. Ivan's head felt as if it were spinning, the air thinning out in his lungs as their lips parted against each other. He tasted Yao's mouth, bittersweet on his tongue, and a scorching heat rushed through him like lightning. His hand clenched, fingers burning as they pressed into Yao's thigh.

Yao's breath shook, a small gasp caught in the kiss. He slipped in Ivan's lap and nearly fell over, crying out when his injured hand grasped onto Ivan's shoulder. Ivan helped him back up, hoisting him up closer in his lap.

'Careful, _myshka_.' Ivan said, feeling his chest heave along his ragged breaths. 'Your hand…'

'I'm fine.' Yao panted, though his left hand trembled on Ivan's shoulder. His face was flushed pink, locks of dark silky hair tumbling over his shoulders as he leaned forward to place pecked kisses along Ivan's jaw. His breath felt hot on Ivan's skin, incomprehensible words mumbled within it as Yao inhaled against Ivan's neck. Ivan held Yao's shoulder blades and pressed him closer, feeling his chest swell against Yao's.

_So warm…_

The kisses moved further down, trailing over Ivan's throat. Ivan swallowed hard, feeling blood pump loudly in his ears, through his veins with a scorching white heat. He shifted in his seat, pressure building beneath Yao's weight.

No longer in the kitchen, no longer seeing Yao in front of him, Ivan was found himself back in that dark shower room. He felt the cold tiles against his back, the coppery water dripping on him from above as a rough hand grabbed his throat. Another hand delved between Ivan's shivering legs.

_(You see? You like it too, you piece of shit. So shut the fuck up and stop crying.)_

Ivan whimpered, feeling so small, so helpless and pathetic as his body shook and convulsed. _I'm a horrible, horrible child-_

'Ivan?' A hand cupped the side of his face, Yao's lips stopping still on Ivan's throat. Yao pulled back to look at him. 'What's wrong?'

'N-Nothing…' Ivan shook his head, a small smile stretching across his lips. But the smile would not stay, trembling at the corners as it wavered. 'I'm fine, _myshka_.'

Yao's brows creased further, running his thumb across Ivan's cheek. 'You don't have to say that.'

_Ochi chern-_

Ivan felt a lump lodge itself in his throat, unable to speak these words. He wanted this, wanted Yao's touches and kisses more than anything else. But that man still held onto him, still touched his skin with hideous hands so that no one else could.

The soft fabric of a scarf tumbled loosely around his throat, Yao's hands adjusting it at the collar. He pulled at the scarf ends until the fabric slithered closed around Ivan's neck. Ivan looked up at Yao, finding his smile bright, though his eyes were glazed over and watery.

'You're safe now.' Yao glanced up. 'You don't have to be scared anymore.'

'Yao…'

'I-' Yao looked to Ivan's throat, hesitation laced in his voice. 'You've told me so much about you… even the things that were painful. And all I've done - ' Yao pursed his lips, distress written in his eyes.

Ivan furrowed his brows. 'What is it?'

Yao shook his head. 'It's nothing.' He slid his hands to wrap around Ivan's waist, pressing his head to Ivan's chest before mumbling. 'I just want to hear it for a bit…'

Ivan watched Yao's head rise and fall alongside his own chest, dark hair tousled and tangled around Yao's pale face. Breaths slowed and deepened, whispering into the fabric of Ivan's coat as Yao leaned closer.

Ivan closed his eyes, feeling Yao melt into him. He dreaded nightmares, visions of the moon and the bloodstained tiles illuminated beneath it, but he also hoped for sunlit dreams, of Yao and his warm hands. Bitterly and sweetly, Ivan sighed - not knowing whether his heart was wanting to burst from love or fear.


	18. Wishful Thinking

Kiku's thumb ached as he pressed down on the remote control button again. The television screen flickered in the dark room – there was news of a fire downtown. Kiku sighed and clicked to the next channel. A recent string of robberies strikes across the city. Next channel. A woman defends her murderer boyfriend. He pressed down on the button again. A flood devastates families.

_American news is so depressing._

Kiku pressed back to the previous channel and settled for the flashy headlines and close up shots of the woman's face. She looked nervous, her eyes uneasy as they surveyed the stage she was on.

Kiku's brows furrowed as he sank back into his seat. How she had decided to put herself on a show like that, he could not understand. Given the headlines, Kiku doubted she had any fighting chance against the live audience. The woman's slim hands were now fidgeting, gripping the hem of her skirt with trembling fingers.

'So you mean to say he's not such a bad guy after all?' The interviewer asked with a teasing smile.

The woman blinked, biting her lip. 'No… He's… He's a terrible person. He's insane.'

'Oh?'

'But I still love him!'

The interviewer's smile faltered. He looked to the live audience behind him, turning back to face the woman again with a frown.

'Lisa… He killed your husband.'

Kiku shut the television off, leaving the room completely dark. He sat still for a while, sinking into the calm of the quiet room.

'Still love him…' Kiku murmured, as if hearing the words aloud would make them more comprehensible. An emptiness was left behind, Kiku staring into the pitch black of the room. Though it wasn't the silence Kiku had always longed for – the blearing of traffic outside never died down – it was as close as it would ever get in this sky high prison. But Kiku was happy to settle for a mere cell block of an apartment, so long as he could get to work and get his job done. That was his reason for coming all the way to America, after all. So he could work, and perhaps one day, not feel quite so foreign to the world. Kiku used to think Japan was his one and only true home… but even there he had felt like an outsider. Something had been missing – no, something was _always_ missing, wherever he went.

Kiku drew out a soft breath, lolling his head to the side. City lights peeked in through the curtains, teasing through fabric to invite Kiku. He got up from his seat and drew back the curtains by a sliver. Only the sight he saw every night, apartment buildings across the traffic clogged street, their windows glowing with warmth. Silhouettes talking, eating at tables as families… living as normal. He was ready to pull the curtain closed, when a familiar cold light bathed his hand. Kiku looked up at the sky, a full moon shining between dark clouds.

_(Beautiful, isn't it?)_

Kiku pulled the curtains back further, letting the moonlight spill onto the carpeted floor of his tiny living room. Never quite breaking his eyes away from it, he stumbled back to sit on the floor, his legs folded.

'Yes… it's very beautiful.' He whispered, though he wasn't sure why he still bothered to reply to these echoes of old memories. He had hoped they would fade, and yet whenever the full moon was up, he wrought them out of his dusty memory to relive again. It was an incomprehensible thing to Kiku, though he never tried to understand it.

A crescent shadow teased over the moon, creeping up on its edge. Kiku's craned neck tilted down, his weary head facing the carpet of the floor as the moonlight became dimmer. What was it that man had said to him again? Jin Wang and his half-lidded, curious eyes…

_(You sure you're a detective? You don't strike me as one. Far too… timid. Like a little brother.)_

And then Jin had smiled, as if having caught onto the end of a tangled yarn ball. Kiku had felt himself flinch, trying to hold onto the file in his shaky hands as he eyed the tape recorder. But Jin had caught even that, and his smile only grew. As if Kiku had been the one being questioned. _I know you,_ Jin's eyes seemed to say, _I know you well. But I'll do you a favour…_

'Tell me about your cousin, Yao Wang.' Kiku had asked him, letting his own expression withdraw and become a blank slate. 'What was he doing at the Poisoned Apple?'

Jin quirked a brow, drawing in a breath and sighing. 'Yong Soo brought him. Apparently he had found him passed out on the side of the highway.' Jin paused, running his index finger over the scabbed nailbed of his thumb.

A hesitant chuckle escaped Jin's lips. 'He carried Yao into my office like he had found a box of kittens on the street or something. He looked so worried and concerned… but I saw his secret little smile.' He looked up to meet Kiku's eyes. 'Just like a child.'

Kiku folded his hands on the table. 'Do you think that's what got to Yao Wang? Made him snap at Yong Soo?'

Jin bowed his head back down and picked at the dried blood on his finger, the sound of it clicking quietly in the pause that followed Kiku's question. 'Did you see the body, Detective?'

'Yes, I did.'

'Then you know Yao did more than just 'snap'.' A scab peeled off Jin's finger, fresh blood oozing out of it. 'He butchered Yong Soo. Like he was the most repulsive thing there ever was…' Jin lifted his head up. 'Have you ever felt that kind of hatred for someone, Detective?'

There was a breath of silence, the fluorescent lights above them buzzing in the absence of voices. Kiku felt his mask of composure jilt, lips twitching to say something other than what he had in mind. He blinked, breaking off the hold Jin's scrutinising eyes had on him.

'No. I haven't.'

A gust of wind coursed against the window, whistling through the hinges. Now seeing the surface of the carpet beneath his lap, Kiku shivered, his eyes snapping out of the trance they had fallen into. He got up, resolved to draw the curtains closed and forget about the moon, about Jin's pointed questions and Yong Soo's mutilated body, about –

The snap of glass sent a flinch through Kiku's shoulders. An angular line of cracked glass had appeared, branching out from the corner of the window. Kiku sighed, resolving to buy masking tape in the morning. He grabbed the curtains, ready to close them, but he hesitated. He glanced up at the moon, bright and luminescent still.

_(Don't leave me here.)_

Kiku furrowed his brows, wanting to shut the curtains now, to will the moon out of its existence.

_(I'm not letting you leave, Kiku-)_

And yet, his fingers quivered against the fabric. It hurt to look at it now, dredged up to the surface voices and images he wished would disappear. If only they were made of paper - of thin, fragile paper so he could burn them.

A scream rang out in his head, every uneven tremble of that voice etched into his memory. It stung Kiku, to know that he remembered that sound so well. Was that how Yong Soo had sounded, too? Was that how his soul had been ripped out of him? Kiku was sure that this horrible scream was the mark of a heart being torn, of someone's soul wanting to escape and shrivel away. It was a terrifying kind of shriek that had sent a chill through his body even after hearing it so many times.

'I made a mistake.' The words were so small, pathetic and barely audible through Kiku's mumbling lips. But his eyes were held by the sky, stinging as the edges of the moon began to blur. And though it still pained Kiku to watch the full moon, his head remained fixed, unable to tear his gaze away.

* * *

The single lightbulb that lit the room began to flicker, buzzing and spitting in the dusty silence. Arthur sighed and shut his eyes, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his stomach, the hunger scratching away inside of him. He rested his head against the wall, rolling it from side to side to shift his gaze between the empty chair and the door. Neither had changed nor moved in the past twenty-four hours.

He settled for the view of the basement door, eyeing its hinges and hoping for light to peek through them. But hoping was only just that – wishful thinking. Arthur was better off clawing at the door. His hands were untied, he was free to move around – and yet he simply remained slumped on the floor.

He jolted his numbed legs, checking that they were still his, and not the deadened husks that they felt to be. Yao had not needed to tear his skin away to render Arthur legless. Somehow, an odd feeling had struck him paralyzed beneath the tip of the kitchen knife. That sweaty, cold tension that Arthur could recall feeling as a young boy. Fear, was it? It had been a while, a long time, since he had felt fear that real. Arthur thought he was done with it. He had _hoped_ he was done with it.

He drew up wooden legs to his chest, lolling his head toward the chair and jolting at the sight he was met with. Where an empty seat should have been, Alfred had been sitting instead. Steady blue eyes held onto his, unblinking and still.

'Alfred.' Arthur felt a smile stretch across cracked lips. 'Fancy meeting you here.'

Alfred seemed to consider Arthur for a moment, his hands locked together in his lap as he leaned forward - the rustle of his suit jacket fresh and beautiful to Arthur's ears.

'You do know what's going on right now, don't you?'

A wheezed chuckle rose in Arthur's throat. 'My dear Alfie is paying me a visit…'

Alfred's brows pinched together. He sighed and adjusted his glasses. 'You're really not wondering how I-'

'Will you always do this?' Arthur said, his sandpapery voice scraping his throat raw. 'Visit me…'

'You and I both know why I'm here.' Alfred paused, perhaps waiting for some sort of recognition on Arthur's face. But Arthur only continued to smile, lolling his head to rest on his shoulder and chuckling.

'I know… I've gone mad. But that's nothing new, Alfred. I told you, didn't I? That I was just like them on the inside...'

Alfred gave him a perplexed look, brows furrowing so delicately, so subtly – Arthur almost started to believe that this was real. He could smell the scent of coffee lingering in the air, could hear the crisp rustle of Alfred's jacket, could almost touch him if he reached out. Alfred was right there, seemingly solid and real in every way even though Arthur knew he wasn't.

Alfred stayed silent, waiting for Arthur to speak again in a long, unblinking stare. His breaths. Arthur can hear them, too.

'Alfred-'

'I don't think you're like them, Arthur.'

'How can you say that?' Arthur lifted his head up, hearing the prick of irritation in his own voice, though he couldn't say for sure why it was there.

Alfred gave a shrug. 'Dunno. You just aren't.'

'Oh please, Alfred. I get paid to think like a beast, like a psychopath and a sociopath and every other deranged individual under the sun. I get paid to _be_ them, Alfred! Of course I'm one of them!'

There was a pause, a silent moment as Alfred's eyes wavered in their hold. Arthur's breaths are louder now, overpowering Alfred's. Arthur remembered once again that this isn't real, that this isn't Alfred. He heard footsteps creaking upstairs and could feel the dream slipping away from him, fading like wispy smoke.

Alfred leaned forward, lowering his voice so that it was soft, quiet enough to send a shiver through Arthur's aching frame.

'If you were one of them, then why are you here?'

Arthur felt his breath, felt the question as it softly sounded out. Alfred watched him as the question rang in Arthur's head, unanswered. Why _was_ he here? He was being held captive, was being starved in this dingy basement, sat here weakly as he waited, waited for something and yet…

It wasn't something a wolf would do.

The basement door creaked open, Arthur's head snapping toward it. Realising what he had just done, he turned his head back to the chair, perhaps desperately hoping Alfred would still be there. But he wasn't, and Arthur is only left with his softly spoken words. Alfred had been right; the door had been unlocked the entire time, swinging open easily in the corner of his eye, so why was Arthur still there, trapped? Arthur's escape had been waiting for him, but he hadn't even given it a single thought. No, he only sat here limp and docile, waiting for the next visitor. Passive like a lamb when Arthur had always deemed himself a wolf.

 _Pathetic_. Arthur thought grimly as he pulled his legs closer to his chest, a heavy feeling flooding his stomach as a shadow approached. _I couldn't even profile my own bloody mind._

 _'Dobroe utro_.' A sweet, almost childish voice said. Arthur looked up, met by a pale faced smile. He forced himself to return the gesture, ignoring the pit of his stomach that was now twisting and churning in uncertainty. He eyed the tray in the man's hands and wondered if it was food or death on a platter.

'Ivan, isn't it…?' Arthur's voice was hoarse, crushed beneath bruises. 'Here to put me out of my misery?'

Ivan's brows furrowed. 'Why would you say such a thing? You are a guest of the house. Killing you wouldn't be nice, _da_?' A chuckle echoed out into the empty basement, light and airy though the words were anything but. Ivan set the tray down onto the floor, a bowl of soup steaming and sending Arthur's stomach growling.

'I have brought you food, but first I need to see your wound, _da_?' Ivan kneeled down beside Arthur, meeting his eye level. 'Yao stabbed you, didn't he?'

'He told you?'

' _Nyet_. I saw the bloody knife outside.'

'Did he tell you how he tried to feed me my own tongue?' Arthur said, feeling the corner of his lips tug up slowly. He watched the thoughts run through Ivan's head, so transparent and easy to read. He saw the slight surprise in his eyes, the amusement faint on his lips, the way his gaze flickered and fell to the ground…

_Oh._

'Is that what happened…?' A weak chuckle escaped Ivan's lips, though his eyes did not match the smile. Disappointment, was it? Arthur looked closer, frowned when he realised that Ivan had not even questioned his claim for a second, had taken it as truth for granted. For someone who supposedly hated so much, supposedly maimed and killed the doctors and nurses that had betrayed him, there was little cynicism.

Ivan's smile widened, shy and hesitant as he looked up at Arthur. ' _Myshka_ has a cute temper, doesn't he?'

Arthur scoffed. 'Dangerous is perhaps the better word for it.'

Ivan only hummed appreciatively. He prodded Arthur's shoulder. 'Enough with the talking, _da_? Let's have a look at that wound.'

Arthur winced at the touch, pursing his lips as he started picking at his shirt buttons with numb fingers. He pulled his shirt away from his shoulder, taking in a sharp inhale when dried blood ripped away with the fabric. He felt fresh blood oozing out of it, an ache running through to his collar bone.

Ivan blinked. 'Ah. That's not so bad.'

'Not so bad? I could have bloody died!'

'Does it matter to you if you do?'

Arthur paused. 'What kind of question is that?' Ivan only stared back in expectation of his answer. Truth is, Arthur didn't really have one.

'… I suppose it should.' Arthur said.

'So why doesn't it?' Ivan asked. 'Isn't there anyone looking for you or waiting for you to come home?'

Arthur watched Ivan pick up a roll of gauze from the tray, absent-mindedly unwinding it as he waited for Arthur's answer yet again. The look on his face was one of innocent curiosity, of a child that had merely asked why the sky was blue. But Arthur could feel the weight of the question, the weight the answer had on his shoulders as it formed. It was on the tip of his tongue, ready to slip out - but Arthur kept to himself.

'Hm?' Ivan hummed as he began to wrap the gauze across Arthur's wounded shoulder. 'Why doesn't it?'

 _It's a test. He's testing me…_ Arthur thought as the gauze wrapped once, twice around his shoulder and chest, binding tightly to his skin. He thought of Alfred, of Kiku, of the entire police force that would be aware of his disappearance by now. He thought of how stupid, how dangerous it really had been for Ivan to even bring him here. Arthur was the beacon, the giant red flag marking Ivan and Yao's location for Alfred - that is, if Arthur had even left any tracks for Alfred to follow.

But which answer was it? That Arthur was being looked for? That he wasn't? Which one would cost him his life, his freedom at best? He didn't trust the childish look in Ivan's eyes, ones perhaps too eager to watch him break, and kept his mouth shut.

Ivan's smile quirked up. 'It's not something you want to answer, is it…?' He sighed, wrapping the gauze yet another time around Arthur. It was getting tighter, more constricting as it crushed his ribs.

'I have just realised…' Ivan continued, reaching the end of the gauze strip. 'I don't know your name. What is it?'

Arthur felt his chest push against the gauze as he took in a shaky breath, having to fight for air. 'It's Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.'

'Arthur…' Ivan yanked the gauze ends, nearly cracking Arthur's ribs in one fell swoop. Arthur bit back a cry, feeling his chest wanting to collapse in on itself. 'We're both going to have to be honest with each other. It's in both of our interests, _da_?'

'Y-Yes, of c-course.' Arthur wheezed out.

'So if there was anything you want to tell me… It would be best for both of us to find out now rather than later.' The bandages squeezed Arthur even harder, biting into skin. 'Does that make sense to you, Arthur?'

Arthur nodded, his mind a frantic mess of fear and adrenaline, vision fraying and flickering at the edges. He felt the dangerous words on his lips, knows they might just kill him or save him –

_Say them._

'I don't know what you did to end up being strangled by Yao when I found you, Arthur. But it would be a shame if saving you was a mistake, _da_? It would be a shame if keeping you here was drawing in someone…'

'If-' Arthur blurted out in a hoarse whisper. His heart pounded as a forced smile stretched across his lips. 'If you're not so sure… why don't you… just kill me?'

In a heart stopping moment the coldness in Ivan's eyes softened, gaze faltering and hesitating. He loosened his grip on the gauze, giving Arthur's chest leeway for a gasp of air. Arthur swallowed up the dusty air like it was fresh water, his chest rising and falling heavily as the devilish smile fell off his lips.

'You can't 'just kill' someone.' Ivan said, tying off the gauze. 'When you kill, you do it with every piece of you, every part of you - because you want to. Because you need to. Not because it conveniences you.'

'You… don't want to kill me?' Arthur panted as he pulled his shirt back on, wincing at the bruised constriction against the wound. 'Not even after all the trouble I've caused you…?'

A small smile tugged at Ivan's lips. He chuckled, though the sound of it did not have that airiness it had before. 'I'm afraid not. It would be easy if I did, wouldn't it? But you, Arthur, don't deserve any death I could give you.'

'I beg to differ.'

'I'm sure Yao would, too. But I'm not killing a man who only stuck around in a place he should not have been in.'

'What does a man have to do to get killed by you?' Arthur asked, watching the sight of Ivan's expression as it faded into flickering emotions, fleeting and transparent. Pain and fake amusement – it's all there for him to see. Arthur felt that he'd already snaked into this man's mind, and a smug smile nested itself on his lips.

'That's not something you would want to know.' Ivan pushed the tray towards Arthur. 'You should eat before it goes cold. I'll be back to check on your wound in the evening, _da_?' He began to make his way towards the door.

'Ivan.'

Ivan turned around. Arthur felt the myriad of questions on his lips, the ones he so badly wanted answered and yet could not ask. Questions about the rose man, about the scorched heart on a platter and the head full of red spider lilies. About that very first colourful kill – the woman with the candles in her womb, the absurdity and morbid decorativeness behind it all. Arthur wanted to know, to be in that strange head of Ivan's when it happened, when that first drop of blood had spilt. There were pieces missing, and yet…

'What is it?' Ivan asked.

Arthur's questions started to collapse in his head, suddenly remembering to feign ignorance. Was it worth asking a question if it put his life at risk? He felt his chest constrict and tighten once again, as if the gauze were to remind him of the promise he made, the flimsy trust Ivan seemed to accept from him. If he knew about Arthur's involvement in the case, what would happen then? Arthur wouldn't be just a guest any more. He'd be a liability, a danger to whatever hidden away life Yao and Ivan had. And surely, surely then, Ivan would not be so merciful.

'Is there something you wanted to say, Arthur?'

Arthur blinked, his heart pounding again at the prospect of saying something risky, of testing Ivan's cruelty. This time, he hesitated. 'N-No, never mind.'

Ivan looked at him for a moment, considering. He offered a small smile, more so polite than anything else, and left the room. There was no sound of the lock.

Arthur felt a breath ease out of him in relief, pulse ebbing and washing over him in loud thumps. A waiting game, Arthur supposed, is exactly what he's playing. Waiting, balancing between life and death, between wolf and lamb, tipping his weight in careful doses so as to keep from falling. And all the while keeping that voice in his head quiet, that timid little answer that had formed when Ivan had so innocently asked if Arthur's life mattered.

Arthur eyed the steaming bowl of soup, his stomach hungry for it. And yet, he could only think of that pointed question. Of course his life mattered! Of course it did, and yet… perhaps it was something more subtle than that. Perhaps Arthur was lying here in hope of something, in that stupid wishful thinking –

_Perhaps… I'm just hoping my life matters to someone else._

It's this shaky little answer that Arthur tried to suffocate as he looked up at the ceiling, counting the faces he can recognize in the mould and grime, counting how many times he can see Alfred in them until the steam from his bowl of soup no longer rises. But even then, the answer won't go away.

* * *

_(Careful, myshka…)_

A piece of toast waited pathetically in Yao's hand, barely eaten as his mind drifted off once again. Staring into the bleak grey sky through the kitchen window, Yao could only think of warm lips, of a hand trailing up his thigh and sending his heart into a throb. He could still hear the nervous swallow Ivan had made as Yao pressed his lips to his throat, could still feel Ivan's heart fluttering wildly and delicately as Yao pulled him closer. The memory had not faded. How could it, after being repeated endlessly throughout the night as Yao had tried to fall asleep, as he tried to close his eyes and not wish that Ivan was next to him?

Yao gave up on eating his breakfast, dropping the piece of toast onto his plate and pushing it away. It felt pathetic, to be pining over something as fleeting as one kiss – one mess of adrenaline and vulnerability that had collapsed before it could become anything more than that. And yet, even as he drifted off to sleep in the empty bed Ivan had carried him to, his thoughts were still swimming in the moment, going over every detail as if he were afraid to lose the memory.

The basement door creaked open, Yao's stomach jumping up and twisting into a knot. He picked up his toast and nibbled at it, wanting to preoccupy himself somehow. He shouldn't have felt like that – nervous. The feeling was making his fingers jittery and his mind hazy as he heard heavy footsteps make their way up the stairs, slow enough to make Yao paranoid. Paranoid enough to think that Ivan was toying with him, drawing out the moment to make him even more flustered and nervous than before.

Ivan peeked his head into the kitchen, a quick glance at Yao setting off the constricting feeling around his chest.

' _Dobroe utro_ , _myshka_.' Ivan smiled. He looked innocent, naïve as ever. But Yao couldn't shake off the feeling that Ivan was thinking about it too, thinking about that ridiculously bold gesture Yao had made yesterday, about how easily Yao had just melted in Ivan's arms.

'Morning.' Yao croaked out. Ivan chuckled, and for a moment the sound was almost bizarre to Yao. He could only think of how softly Ivan had sobbed the night before, how trembling and delicate his voice was. It sent an ache in his chest to think about it, reminding Yao of everything painful Ivan had shared. It had always been Yao asking the questions, always him prying out answers and scratching at old wounds. But Yao had never really shared any of his own.

Yao took a small bite out of his toast, watching Ivan busy himself with the pot of soup on the stove. The morning light danced on Ivan's features, outlining the calm and gentle expression on his face. Yao wondered if that would change if he told him about his own wounds and scars, shared that one mark Yao would rather forget. It's a thought that makes Yao uneasy. Ivan had more than enough tales of violence and hatred in his life. Did he really need the burden of yet another?

'Did you want some, _myshka_?' Ivan turned towards Yao. The ladle in his hand is raised, soup steaming out of it.

Yao blinked, Ivan's eyes meeting his. He swallowed down the food in his mouth. 'Uh… N-No, I'm fine.' He redirected his gaze to the wood of the table, taking another bite of his toast and hoping Ivan wouldn't think too much of the fact Yao had been staring.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'It's good…'

Yao heard the soup slosh into a small bowl. Though he didn't look up from the table, he knew Ivan was serving him a bowl of soup anyway. He let out a small sigh, lifting his head up and braving a glance.

'But you made it for him, didn't you?' Yao said.

Ivan stole a glance at Yao, a small smile quirking on his lips. 'Is that a problem, Yao?'

The sound of his own name on Ivan's lips sounded strange somehow, familiar and teasing in a way that sent Yao's heart fluttering nervously once again. He set his half-eaten toast down, his gaze on Ivan wavering.

'No, I meant –' Yao hesitated. 'We're not actually… keeping him, are we?'

Ivan took a seat at the table, setting the bowl of soup in front of Yao. 'He makes a nice friend, don't you think?'

Yao frowned. 'He tried to bite my fingers off. And I said I didn't want any!' He pushed the bowl towards Ivan.

Ivan pushed the bowl back. 'You'll like it! And you might have not injured your hand, _myshka_ , if you had kept out of his mouth, _da_?'

' _Aiyah_ … Don't say it like that.' Yao pushed the bowl away. 'You make it sound like I -'

Yao hesitated to continue, not sure what exactly had his cheeks warming up like this. Ivan's face lit up in amusement, eyes gleaming in a way Yao hadn't seen in a while.

'Like what, _myshka_?'

'Never mind.' Yao snapped, watching Ivan push the bowl slowly towards him, as if being more discrete about it would change Yao's mind. 'It's just-' Yao stopped the bowl, leaning forward and lowering his voice though he was sure Arthur couldn't hear them anyway. 'We can't keep him here.'

Ivan's smile faded a little, the amusement in his eyes blinked away. He lowered his voice too, for some reason. 'I know. But I'll think of something, _da_?'

Yao felt the crease between his brows deepen. The surface of the bowl burned and singed the palms of his hand. He lightly lifted his hands off the bowl, still hovering over it as if he were holding it. He didn't want to pull away, didn't want to break the whispers just yet.

'You don't need to.' Yao said. Ivan chuckled. 'I can go in there and take care of it now.'

'Don't, _myshka_.' Ivan shook his head. His fingers too, were hovering shakily around the bowl. 'He's not like the others, we can't just kill him.'

'We can. I mean, he's dead already, Ivan. He died the moment we put him in the car trunk.' Yao said, searching Ivan's eyes for some kind of recognition, some kind of understanding, or perhaps something entirely different. Yao wasn't sure. He continued on, stumbling with his words.

'And, I mean, you – You said so yourself, didn't you? A dead man can't dispose of himself? Isn't that… isn't that what you said?'

Ivan's brows raised in slight surprise. 'I did, but…' Ivan's gaze falls to the untouched bowl of soup, watching the steam rise from it absent-mindedly. 'Maybe he's not our dead man to get rid of.'

Ivan's fingers wavered on the porcelain surface of the bowl, incredibly close to Yao's own, and yet the distance couldn't feel farther. Yao thought for a second to touch them, to hold them because they looked so pale and fragile. Fragile, though he knew they had ripped flesh apart and gouged eyes out. Yao wanted to reach out anyway, wished he could be as bold as he had been yesterday.

'Yao…'

Yao looked up, meeting Ivan's gaze. He could see the apprehension in them as Ivan formed his question, hesitated with the words he wanted to say.

'Who was it you killed on that day... when you left?'

Yao stiffened at the question, still able to feel the scissor blade in his hand, to see mangled flesh. Broken sobs and dark rivers of blood – of Yong Soo's blood. Yao wanted to shiver at the memory. He pressed his fingertips lightly onto the hot bowl, letting them scorch briefly.

'… Someone I knew.' Yao drew his hands back and folded them on the table, finding it hard to meet Ivan's eyes. 'He was kind of my friend, but not really. He…'

_(let go_ _of me_ _)_

_(but I don't think I want to…)_

Yao shifted in his seat. 'He did something stupid. I lost it. And then killed him.'

The room went quiet, and for a moment Yao was tempted to steal a glance at Ivan. But he didn't, was too afraid to see the disappointment on his face. Ivan had been tortured, hurt and bruised by the men he killed. And yet here Yao was, having snapped because he simply couldn't stand someone. It repulsed him.

'Does Arthur know?' Ivan asked, voice breaking the silence delicately.

'He saw me covered in blood.'

'Is that why you tried to kill him twice?'

Yao hesitated. 'Make that… three times…'

'…Oh.'

Yao glanced up at Ivan. 'I'm a terrible person, aren't I?'

Ivan chuckled. 'Then what does that make me?'

'It makes you not terrible.'

Ivan's brows furrowed. 'Yao-'

'You answered my questions even though they've only made you remember horrible things. You went out looking for me in the snow even though I've only brought you trouble. And you… you patched my hand up even though I got what was coming to me. Terrible people don't do that.'

Ivan blinked, pulling his hands away from the bowl and fidgeting. He burst into a nervous laughter, his eyes wavering even as he tried to look at Yao.

'Terrible people don't say nice things like that either.' The smile on Ivan's lips was shy, timid in a way Yao hadn't quite seen before. The sight made Yao chuckle, almost regretting doing so when Ivan looked to him in question, as if he had said something wrong. Yao shook his head.

'It's nothing. I just…' Yao hesitated - _I wish you would smile like that more often._ But the words were stuck in his throat, hidden away because he was too scared to speak them. What he was afraid of, exactly, Yao wasn't sure.

'Are you gonna eat that?' Yao said instead, dragging the bowl towards himself. Ivan blinked in surprise, the smile growing and a childlike glee in his eyes.

'Have as much as you want, _myshka_. You'll like it! I'll make more if you want, too.'

Yao chuckled, forgetting in that moment what he had been so uneasy about. Uncertainties seemed to dissolve away, and for a while, he could almost pretend the world was only of sweet smiles and lilac gazes.

* * *

The pipe faltered in Ivan's grip, slipping between his gloved fingers. He took a heavy step toward the man, who was writhing in the chair he was bound to. The man's eyes were sunken and low, staring back at Ivan without recognition, though Ivan knew him well – enough to remember how this man's voice had sounded, how his hands grabbed like claws. How easy it had been for the man to exchange shivering children for wads of money, to snatch Ivan from his bed every week and throw him to some shadowy stranger. Ivan's gaze travelled down to the man's tied up hands, down to the ends of his quivering fingertips.

Ivan let the pipe drop onto the floor, turning back to his bag to retrieve a pair of pliers. He crouched down behind the chair where the man's hands were tied up. Picking up a trembling finger, Ivan pinched the edge of the nail with the pliers. There was a small cry of terror, the sound inciting a strange twinge of guilt in Ivan. His grip on the pliers weakened, but he couldn't understand. Why did it feel so different now?

A hand tentatively touched his shoulder. Ivan flinched, turning his head around to find Yao watching with his brows furrowed.

'I'll do it for you if you want.'

Ivan breathed out a hesitant chuckle. 'There is no need, _myshka_. I can do this on my own.'

'Then why did you bring me?'

'You insisted.'

'But you still didn't have to.' Yao's dark eyes flickered, searching Ivan's for an explanation. The touch of Yao's hand on Ivan's shoulder felt heavy, became the centre of everything even though it was the smallest of gestures. 'Let me help.'

Ivan watched the way Yao's lips moved, and couldn't help but think of how petal soft they had been yesterday. For a moment he was tempted to drop these cold pliers and hold Yao's warm hands instead, tempted to feel that intoxicating dizziness once again, to fight off that ache in his chest. Wouldn't that keep the heart in Ivan's chest from feeling like it was falling out? Wouldn't that ease the worry on Yao's face?

'We're in this together, aren't we?' Yao spoke again, softer this time.

'Your hand hasn't even healed yet…' Ivan croaked out, feeling the resolve in him start melting away. He fought it, tightening his grip on the pliers and feeling the man's hand stiffen. He shouldn't have brought Yao here, shouldn't have given in to his own need to keep Yao with him.

'Neither has yours.'

'Doesn't matter.' Ivan shook his head. 'Please, Yao. Just… step back.'

Yao's expression softened. His gaze flickered to the floor, the space beneath the chair and perhaps the bloodstains that would soon mark it. He gave a weak nod, hand slowly sliding off Ivan as he backed away.

Ivan turned back to the man's clammy hands, taking in a shaky inhale. His fingers trembled, the pliers shifting the nail as his grip wavered. The man sobbed through the fabric of the gag, hand shaking with each convulsion. It had already begun, the man was already crumbling apart before Ivan could even draw a pinprick of blood. Already reduced to a pathetic mess of a human being, when Ivan had suffered long nights of bruises and cuts without shedding a single tear. No, Ivan had kept silent, even when this man tightened the straps around his wrists and ankles so tight that they dug into his skin. Kept quiet even when the man ripped them off, only to throw him into the chest of a hungry shadow. And yet here this man was, crying in fear of losing a fingernail, of feeling a small and useless part of him being torn away.

It disgusted Ivan.

He tilted the pliers, lifting the nail and ripping it away from the nailbed. Sobs turned into screams, raw pink skin became bloody and torn. When the nail was hanging loose from the man's finger, Ivan yanked it off, hearing the man's screeches sharpen. He threw the yellowed nail aside and set the pliers onto the next finger, having to uncurl the man's hands as they balled into clammy fists. He tore off each nail until only bloody fingers remained, lumps of raw flesh where each nail used to be.

Ivan tossed the pliers aside, reaching for the rusty pipe he had dropped earlier. He stood up, towering over the man whose face was twisted and contorted in agony. Still sobbing, still falling apart though Ivan had only just started picking away. A sour taste built up in his mouth, a heavy lump growing from the bottom of his throat as the man's cries continued to ring out.

_(Keep your fucking mouth shut.)_

Wasn't that what he had always told Ivan? What had followed a crushing kick to his ribs when Ivan had done so much as bite back a whimper?

_It's only fair that you do the same._

Ivan held the pipe up over the man's face. He touched the tip of it onto the man's nose, pulling the pipe back and watching his beady eyes squeeze shut. He swung the pipe into the man's face, hearing it crack as red specked out into the air. Ivan felt blood dot his face, the heat of each drop cooling on his skin. Ivan swung again, bits of flesh flying away from where the pipe had struck. Every hit had greater force than the one before, sweating skin melting into lumps of red, white bone jutting out as Ivan shattered it.

There was a loud squelch, a ribbon of red trailing out of the pipe as Ivan swung it back. Blood splattered against a hard surface, sending Ivan's glance up in its direction.

There was a large wooden frame hung on the wall, the dips in its ornate design now coated in dark fluid. Within the frame, a pale man's face crossed out in red. Ivan's arms weakened, the muscle of it loosening and wanting to fall away. He lowered his arms, watching his own reflection do the same. When had he last looked into a mirror? He couldn't remember…

The pipe fell from his hands, Ivan stumbling toward the mirror on the wall. He watched his own blood specked brows crease, sitting on his skin like they were freckles as he frowned. His lips were stained. That horrible taste in his mouth, of that man's rotten blood… It was Ivan's taste, too.

_I'm rotten._

It had been these stained lips that Yao had kissed, this ugly skin that Yao had touched. This horrible man in the mirror that Yao had leaned on, that he had trusted his wounded hand with.

Ivan wiped away at the stretch of blood on the cool surface of the mirror, spreading it to leave a streaked film of red over his own reflection.

'Ivan?'

 _I'm just like them._ Ivan pressed his palm into the mirror, feeling it bend beneath his fingers. _Rotten…_

The glass cracked, the pale of his skin distorted across the mirror's surface. Ivan pressed harder into the glass, until shards fell loose and shattered at his feet.

'What are you doing?' Yao grabbed his arm, though Ivan did not turn around. He ran his thumb over the edge of the mirror shard that was still pinned up beneath his hand, the feel of bloodied skin on slippery glass familiar. He picked it off from the nearly empty frame, closing his fingers around it and almost being able to see those bloody tiles again. Almost able to feel the shard dragging through skin, twisting in flesh and ringing out shrieks.

Yao's hand closed around his, gentle fingertips prying the shard out of his grip. 'Ivan, let go of that. You'll hurt yourself…'

Ivan turned to look at Yao, dark eyes watching in concern. He felt the bloody shard slip out of his hand - effortlessly, easily beneath Yao's touch.

'Let's just clean up and go home, okay?'

Yao's hand reached up tentatively, a thumb brushing away the red stain on Ivan's bottom lip. He studied Ivan for a moment, perhaps more out of hesitation than curiosity. Ivan heard the patter of blood drops, his own breath shaking alongside it. It was quiet, peaceful as it always was when a kill had been finished. But his heart wouldn't stop pounding, wouldn't rest even though Yao was here with him.

He was rotten, and there was nothing that could ever change that.

* * *

_He's so cold…_

Yao brushed his fingers over Ivan's cool cheek, not caring for the blood splotches that would stain his hand, not caring for the sound of flesh still falling apart from that man's mutilated head. Ivan's eyes had clouded over and lost themselves in something Yao couldn't see, something terrifying and beastly. Just what had Ivan seen in that mirror? Yao smeared away the specks of blood from Ivan's porcelain white skin, wishing he could do more than just this. He was stuck at the surface, on the edge on a dark pool he couldn't see into, though he only knew Ivan was drowning in it.

'Hey…' He swept the feather soft hair out of Ivan's eyes, worry knotted in his chest. 'Please say something.'

Ivan's gaze wavered, finally focusing on Yao as if waking up from a nightmare. 'Yao…' Ivan croaked out. A small breath of relief escaped Yao's lips, a smile sweeping across them. 'I shouldn't have brought you here.'

Yao shook his head. 'No, don't say that. I… I told you, didn't I –'

Ivan pried Yao's hand away from his face, glancing at the blood that was now smeared on Yao's palm. 'I ruin everything I touch…'

'Ivan-' Yao caught sight of a dark flicker in the corner of his eye. He turned toward the mirror, watching the distorted reflection of a shadow approach them from behind. Its hands were raised, poised to strike-

'Move!' Yao pushed Ivan, the two of them stumbling as the shadow swung at the mirror. There was a crash, dark shards of glass raining down from the wall. The stranger swung again, aiming at Yao. Yao raised his arm reflexively, the bottle smashing against it. He stumbled further back, bumping into Ivan's chest. The corner of the wall caught them both, leaving them trapped as the shadow crunched on glass and mirror shards. It charged at them, ready to pierce Yao with the jagged black teeth of a broken bottle. Flinching, Yao's eyes shut in fear, in cold anticipation. The shadow was ready to swallow them both, to tear them into tiny pieces like every other body Yao had mutilated, to twist and rip every muscle -

'Ivan!'

The crunch of the glass halted.

Breaths, ragged - Yao could hear them, could feel Ivan's chest heaving with every pant, could feel his breaths on the back of his neck. Yao opened his eyes, watching his own chest rise and fall dangerously close to the sharp jutted edges of the bottle, teasingly close to being pierced by it. Ivan's hands were wrapped around the shadow's – no, the man's hands. Human hands that had held the bottle, that had tried to stab Yao. And Yao could hear their bones crack and crumble beneath Ivan's grip, break and bend like twigs.

A terrified cry broke out into the air, but the bottle only wavered, only started to inch closer with dying strength. Yao's hands gripped the edge of the bottle to push it away, skin nicking against the sharp juts of glass. Ivan crushed the shadow's hands even harder, his arms trembling as the black teeth of the bottle approach closer, closer even as blood started dripping from the stranger's hands.

Yao gasped as the bottle made a sudden thrust towards him, just about scratching him. He could hear his and Ivan's breaths tremble, the lump in Yao's throat as streams of blood rolled down his palms, glass cutting through both bandages and skin alike. Yao lifted away one hand, slowly, and snapped off a bloody shard from the bottle. Quivering, Yao jammed the shard into the stranger's throat, ripping out bloody gurgles from him. The stranger's crushed hands slipped away from Ivan's, head lolling back and sending the rest of his body falling to the floor with a heavy thud. His face was illuminated by gentle moonlight. Young. Terrified.

 _He was just a kid_ … A lump buried itself in Yao's throat. No older than Yong Soo, no more guilty than any other child defending his father. Yao stumbled toward the body, a sickening feeling boiling up like poison within him. The room had fallen into near silence, time marked by each panicked dying breath sounding out. Blood was pouring out of the young man's throat, his eyes glancing over to the chair where the mutilated body lay slumped.

Without a further moment, Yao sliced his throat. It had been too late anyway. Innocent or not, the kid was already dead. Yao dropped the shard, trying not to let the nausea overpower him.

'Yao…'

Yao turned around, finding Ivan sitting with his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. Yao could see him shaking from where he is, could hear the frailty of his voice. He took an unsteady step towards Ivan, his head feeling light as he crouched down in front of him.

'…Are y-you okay?' Yao asked, his teeth chattering though the room felt anything but cold. Far from it, the air was sticky with the scent of fear and blood. He held onto Ivan's knees for balance. 'Ivan?'

Ivan kept his gaze down at his own red-stained hands, his voice barely a murmur.

'I thought the house was empty…'

'I know.' Yao took ahold of Ivan's hands, tightly even though it stung his open wounds. 'I know you did. We both did.'

Ivan lifted his head up, looking at Yao with tear pricked eyes. 'Promise me you won't tell Katyusha about this. Promise me you won't tell her I -' His eyes flickered to the space over Yao's shoulder, towards the body that was now bleeding out onto the floor. Ivan swallowed.

'Ivan, you didn't kill him. I did-'

'It doesn't matter. It was my fault anyway. I should have known the house wasn't empty, I should have gotten out of the way when he attacked. I should have come here alone so that you wouldn't have to get hurt again.'

Ivan's hands trembled in Yao's, blood cooling on skin. Yao drew them closer to his chest, hoping whatever little warmth he had would somehow fix the panic laced in Ivan's voice. He wanted to tell Ivan that it wasn't his fault, that Yao had been the one to stab the young man, but he knew it was pointless. The terrified, timid look in Ivan's eyes was one of convinced guilt, of believing he truly was the distorted image he had seen in the mirror. Nothing Yao said could change that.

'Katyusha is waiting for us outside.' Ivan said, his voice unsteady. 'I only have one bag for the bodies, we'll have to carry one without a bag. It's dark out, so maybe she won't be able to tell-'

Yao shook his head. 'Don't worry about it, okay? I won't let her find out. I'll come up with something.' He squeezed Ivan's hands. 'I promise.'

Ivan's teary eyes blinked, a shaky exhale of relief escaping his lips as he rested his head against his knees. He mumbled in Russian, words sounding out softly and delicately like the blood drops from the man's mangled corpse. Yao stayed still with Ivan like that until the blood drops ceased, until Ivan's shoulders were no longer trembling. But even so, Yao felt that something had been irreversibly broken, shattered like the mirror behind them. He could only wish the shards could somehow come back together, though he knew this to be no more than wishful thinking.

* * *

 Kiku pressed the knife into the heart of the cabbage, the blade snapping against the wooden board. He tightened his clammy grip on the knife, shredding and dicing up flimsy leaves. No matter how steadily he held the knife, his hands always shook as if bitten by the cold. Always trembling, even at that time –

The phone rang, almost causing Kiku to drop the knife. He set it aside on the chopping board and went to pick up his phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Dude, we fucking got him!’

Kiku furrowed his brows, having to pull the phone away from his ear from the sheer loudness of Alfred’s voice. ‘Got who?’

‘Yao Wang. Our killer. Or at least, one of them.’

Kiku felt his hand go cold as it gripped the phone back against his ear. ‘You’ve arrested him?’

‘Not yet. But we have his prints all over the murder weapon from ‘The Poisoned Apple’. I got them cross-checked with the prints in his apartment and it’s a perfect match. All we gotta do is find him now.’

‘Find him…’ Kiku echoed, Alfred’s words slurring together in his mind. He leaned against the wall, unable to keep himself steady.

‘Not only that, but there was a report of a pick-up truck abandoned on a highway not far from ‘The Poisoned Apple’. Prints on the steering wheel match, so I’m thinking whoever that pick-up truck is registered to is a place to start.’

‘That sounds reasonable…’

Alfred paused. ‘Are you okay, man? You sound a little out of it.’

Kiku forced a smile, though it was only his voice that needed to brighten. ‘I’m fine, Alfred. Thank you for asking.’ He hesitated, thinking of the next words that would be most appropriate. ‘I’m glad to hear the investigation is going well. I will search up the license plate for you tomorrow morning.’

‘Nah, that’s fine. I’m still at the office, anyway.’

Kiku’s chest tightened, the thought of Alfred possibly finding Yao Wang by morning making him uneasy. Even so, he only made a half-hearted hum in agreement.

‘Right…’ Kiku fumbled with the phone, his hands still shaking. ‘I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

‘Yeah. See ya.’

The phone closed, leaving Kiku with a buzzing silence. He set the phone down onto the kitchen table, feeling a boiling black mass fester in the pit of his stomach. Sitting at the table, he steadied his palms flat on the table surface as old echoes rang in his head again.

_(You used to be so sweet…)_

Even after Kiku had finished cooking, the sickening feeling in his stomach persisted. He went to bed hungry, still unable to let go of that pained voice as his head hit the cool surface of his pillow. He wondered how that voice sounded now, if it still carried that airiness that Kiku was so familiar with. Or if perhaps it had changed, become strained and weary… because of what Kiku had done, of what he had left behind on that day.

And now, more than seventy men and woman died at the hands of Yao Wang. Kiku couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps it was his fault Yao had turned out that way. If his betrayal had spurned Yao into the monster Alfred was so intent on hunting down.

_A mistake… it was only a mistake…_

But no matter how many times Kiku told himself this, sleep did not come easy.


	19. Revelations

The wooden surface of the door grated on Yao’s skin, prickling through the back of his shirt. There was a quivering inside his chest that he could not still, an impatience twisting up inside him as he sat at the basement door. Though he could not tell what time it was, he was sure he had been waiting for more than an hour now – more than an hour since Ivan had gone upstairs in promise that he would return for dinner, only to shut himself in one of the upstairs rooms. Yao had kept his distance, though he wasn’t sure who he was doing this for.

Yao watched his hands fidget and tremble slightly in his lap, remnants of dried blood beneath his fingernails. He thought of Ivan’s shaking hands, the ice coldness of them as Yao had held them only a few hours ago. Were they still trembling now, as Ivan sat alone in a cold room? Leaving him be suddenly seemed like a terrible thing to do, and yet… Hadn’t Yao done enough already? It was his presence, surely, that was making things difficult for Ivan. Difficult for him to kill, difficult for him to sleep at night, difficult for him to live without the guilt of having dragged Yao into this. Yao felt his stomach churn as did these thoughts, his heart picking up its pace every time he thought to go upstairs and check on Ivan, only to dismiss it and remain seated in this dingy hallway.

There was a thud against the door, Yao flinching at the sound. He heard fabric sliding against the other side of the door. Yet another thud, this time directly where Yao’s head rested back onto the door.

‘You’ve been waiting for quite a while, love.’

‘ _Aiyah_ …’ Yao muttered under his breath as he lifted his head away from the door. ‘Don’t make me regret – ’

‘Not cutting my tongue? I’m sure you already do.’

Yao pursed his lips, scrambling to get up from his seat.

‘Hold on, aren’t you going to feed me yet?’ Arthur said, his voice betraying a trace of panic, perhaps even confusion.

‘Ivan already did.’

‘For breakfast. What about dinner?’

‘You didn’t like what I had to offer last time.’ Yao dusted off his trousers, making his way up the stairs. Why he had chosen to wait here of all places, he had forgotten.

‘Yao.’

Yao stopped still, sighing as he turned his head. ‘What?’

‘You wanted to talk about something, didn’t you?’

Yao could picture the lopsided smile on Arthur’s face, the gleam in his eyes as he spoke. He sounded so sure of himself, so confident that it made Yao want to squeeze the smug voice out of him.

‘You shouldn’t be shy, Yao. You waited all this time down here, waited for me to catch your little signal. Well, I did. I’ll play the part of the concerned friend, if you like. Talk away, dear.’

Yao scoffed. ‘That’s not why I came down here.’

‘Really? So you just came down here to torment me with the prospect of food.’

‘Maybe I did.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Yao.’

‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t.’ Yao continued his way up the stairs, making sure Arthur could hear each and every step. The smug bastard deserved it, causing Ivan all this trouble, bringing him worries when he had more than enough – bringing him guilt when there was enough blood on his hands. No, Yao had not come down here to talk to Arthur. He had only wanted a bit of quiet, isolation. It was cold down here, lonely and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough for Yao to sit without feeding the nagging feeling in his chest, uncomfortable enough so that perhaps he wouldn’t feel guilt for leaving Ivan on his own. Perhaps that was why -

‘You upset Ivan, didn’t you?’

Yao took a step down, the question causing his breath to waver slightly. ‘What did you say?’

Arthur chuckled. ‘I’m bang on, aren’t I? You did upset Ivan. Oh, tell me, Yao, what did you do this time round? Try to cut some other man’s tongue?’

‘I didn’t do anything - ’ Yao took another step down, stopping himself short when he realised he was actually defending himself against this idiot’s prying. Rethinking his words when he realised that he had in fact, done _something_. He had been the one to slice the kid’s throat after all, had been the one to carry the body into the workshop without saying anything more to comfort Ivan. 

‘Ah. There it is - the hesitation. Would you like to tell me what it is, or shall I guess?’

Yao stalled to answer, stalled to decide whether he was really leaving or not. As quietly as he could, he took a seat on the stairs, his hands still cold and unsteady as he folded them in his lap. What had they done? Yet another Yong Soo, yet another kid that should have lived on rather than die by his hands. And this time, Ivan was paying for it, too.

‘Are you still there? Yao?’

Yao watched Arthur’s fingers poke out from the generous gap beneath the door, wiggling around. Yao couldn’t help but feel a prick of irritation at the sight.

‘Ivan left the door unlocked, you know.’ Yao said. The fingers stopped still.

‘That’s very true, Yao. But I wouldn’t be a prisoner anymore if I could just walk around as I pleased, would I? Now do me a favour and come closer so I can hear you better.’

Yao scoffed. ‘You can hear me just fine.’

‘Then tell me. Dear old Arthur will fix your problems, don’t you worry…’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I live in people’s heads, Yao. It’s what I do. Let me live in yours for a bit.’

‘So you can do what? Scramble my brains?’

Arthur chuckled. ‘Oh dear, no. Well, I _could_. But that’s not what I want to do. Hopefully, I might just be able to fix you.’

‘Really.’

‘I can try. Come on, Yao. It’ll be fun, don’t you think? You don’t even have to say much! I’ll just guess, and you can tell me if I’m right or wrong. Sounds simple enough, right?’

Yao withheld a sigh. ‘Try me then.’

‘Alright. You are… a young man.’

‘Oh wow.’ Yao blinked. ‘How did you know.’

Arthur scoffed. ‘It’s the starting questions, Yao. Just bear with me for a moment. You are… a murderer.’

This time Yao did not withhold his exasperated sigh. ‘Yes.’

‘You are… an only child.’

A pause. ‘Yes.’

‘Was that your first lie to me, Yao?’

‘No.’

‘There’s your second lie.’

‘I wasn’t lying. And don’t tell me that’s –’

‘Your third lie? It is.’

Yao grit his teeth. ‘If you know so much, why bother asking?’

‘Your voice is telling me everything, Yao. You’re the one giving it away, I’m afraid.’ A pause. ‘Your sibling, or siblings, they –’

‘I don’t want to talk about that. Change the question.’

‘Alright, alright…’ Arthur said, perhaps too deliberately soothing for Yao’s patience. ‘You are… let’s see… You are in love.’

‘Wrong.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘What?’ Yao snapped back, his fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers. Arthur chuckled, the laugh dry and smug and every bit of annoying that Yao despised about him.

‘Do you really want to be playing this game? I’m quite alright reading between the lines of your lies, Yao, but I’m not entirely sure you are.’

Yao picked at the seam of his trousers, a loose thread between his fingers. What was he doing here? What was he doing, telling pathetic lies to someone who could clearly see through them? He should be looking for Ivan, rather than wasting away time here, and yet -

‘You’re worried.’

Yao looked up at the basement door. ‘About the time I’m spending talking to you, yes.’

‘No, you’re worried about something else. About Ivan.’ A silence fell, hesitation before Arthur continued. ‘He cracked, didn’t he? And you’re worried you won’t be able to put the pieces back together.’

Yao forced a laugh, wanting to tear away the loose thread trapped between his fingers. ‘Nice try. Guess again.’

‘You’re worried you’re only going to break him further, with your clumsy hands and your clumsy temper. Because that’s what you do, you drive people away. You break them otherwise.’

Yao’s hands felt cold, clammy as the thread slipped out of his grip. Clumsy…

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

Yao drew his legs closer to his chest, an ugly, spitting voice wanting to burst out of his throat. His hands really were clumsy, in the most disgusting of ways. They could only break things, break people’s faces and smiles. Like they broke Yong Soo, like they broke every other corpse Yao left behind, like they broke…

He swallowed the thought down. He couldn’t prove him right, couldn’t give him the satisfaction. He held onto himself and tried not to think, not to let that rationale win over – _you broke Ivan_ – and yet, it was already too late.

Arthur drew out a long sigh, as if recovering from a long day’s work. ‘Have you ever been stabbed, love?’

Yao’s fidgety hands halted. ‘No.’

‘Well, if you ever were stabbed… you would know it hurts like bloody hell. Even after it’s been cleaned and bandaged, even started to heal a little. The scar hurts perhaps even more than the stabbing itself.’

Yao felt a lump in his throat, feeling the stretched scar across his back prickle, as if catching fire. It was starting to sting, and Yao could feel the pain burning up slowly on his skin.

‘It’s curious how the body seems to remember…’

Ripping and tearing the wound anew, Yao could feel the scar opening up like a torn seam. He wrapped his arms around his knees tightly, trying not to think of those words, that voice and how calmly it had spoken -

_(forgive me)_

Like fiery liquid, Yao could almost feel blood still dripping down his back. He wanted to scratch at it, wipe away the blood. But he knew it wasn’t there, wasn’t there just like the words and the prying questions, the image of Ivan’s trembling hands and Yao’s own following like a guilt-ridden puppet. Clumsy, destructive. He’d brought it upon himself, that day. He had been asking for it, with his hands. Clumsy, terrible, bloody hands.

‘Anyways, I was wondering if you had any painkillers. I’d hate to be a crumbling mess of a prisoner if I can’t even walk to my own execution.’

Yao blinked away the threatening tears. ‘…What?’

‘Painkillers. Got any?’

‘N-No.’ Yao swallowed. He grit his teeth and got up, leaving the basement stairway without another word. He skipped steps as he swallowed for cleaner air, fresher air that didn’t smell of his own blood pooling on the floor, of the cold night breeze and the metal of the blade. Hurting, the pain was sending tears to sting his eyes. He rushed through the kitchen and the hallway, up the stairs as if the memory was following at his heels.

He reached the landing, panting. An icy breeze brushed against him, alleviating the ache on his back for a fleeting moment. He followed its cold trail to the end of the hallway, towards the room he had once been so afraid of. The door swung as the wind howled. The room was not lit, but Yao knew it was where Ivan was. Catching the scent of alcohol, Yao pushed against the door and entered the room hastily.

Ivan lay slumped in the chair, seated in front of the open window with its thin curtains swaying. The walls, once filled with images of faces, was nearly smothered in black crosses. Few profiles had remained uncrossed. The pit of Yao’s stomach coiled into a knot, feeling as though the room had become a countdown to an end he couldn’t know for certain.

Yao approached the chair, watching Ivan’s shoulders rise and fall in slow and drowsy breaths. He reached his hand out, barely touching Ivan’s shoulder. It felt frosty to the touch.

‘It’s too cold like this, isn’t it?’ Yao said. Ivan opened his eyes, turning his head toward Yao.

‘It’s okay, _myshka_ …’ Ivan drawled out, a soft smile sweeping across his lips. ‘The cold cannot kill me, anyways…’

The smile leaves Yao wanting more, almost letting him forget the scar on his back for a brief moment. But the feel of Ivan’s coat also leaves him worried, his brows furrowing at the iciness of it.

‘It’s not good for you either way.’ Yao said, walking over to the window and shutting it, stealing a glance at the nearly full moon. It was beautiful as always. But tonight, it stared back at Yao bitterly. Yao tore his gaze away from it, turning back to Ivan. ‘I won’t have you getting sick and leaving me alone with that idiot.’

Ivan’s eyes were half-lidded in drowsiness, his head tilting towards his shoulder as it slid on the back of the chair. Ivan chuckled. ‘You’re so beautiful, _myshka_ …’

Yao blinked, hearing the clink of glass on the floor. He drew his gaze toward it, finding Ivan’s hand clumsily reaching for a half-empty bottle of vodka. Yao picked it up, looking up at Ivan.

‘Hm?’ Ivan’s smile grew at the sides. ‘You want a drink too? Have some…’

Yao set the bottle aside, noticing the slight flush of Ivan’s face. Yao pressed the back of his hand to Ivan’s cheek, skin burning up as if overtaken by a fever. He sighed.

‘ _Aiyah…_ See, you’ve already gotten yourself sick.’ Yao said, despite the overwhelming smell of vodka in the room. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

Ivan leaned further into Yao’s hand, eyes gleaming with a fondness that sent Yao’s heart leaping into his throat. There was a vulnerability about it that made it so achingly endearing, Yao’s heart squeezed by the sight of it.

Ivan’s eyelids lowered as Yao smoothed his hand to the back of his cheek, drowsy breath being drawn in. Yao pulled his hand away, jolting Ivan out of his sleepy trance.

‘You should go to bed. You’re tired.’

‘I am…?’

‘Come on.’ Yao guided Ivan as he stood up from the chair. Ivan stumbled, crashing into Yao and nearly knocking him over. Ivan chuckled, catching Yao by the arms to keep the both of them from falling over.

‘You’re so small, _myshka_ …’ Ivan hummed, resting his chin on Yao’s head.

Yao scoffed lightly. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘I’m not complaining…’ Ivan’s arm snaked around Yao’s waist, drawing him closer. Yao’s breath wavered, suffocated by the scent of vodka that hung around Ivan like mist. A cold hand, ungloved, travelled down from Yao’s shoulder to his wrist. Fingers entwined with his, locking their hands together as Ivan drew them up to shoulder height. Yao tilted his head up in question, clumsily bumping his face into Ivan’s. Yao swallowed, his voice coming out as a nervous croak.

‘You’re drunk…’

Ivan only hummed, pressing his forehead against Yao’s. His balance swayed, taking Yao along with it. A soft giggle escaped Ivan’s lips, breath teasing against Yao’s. Yao diverted his gaze to the floor, watching the shadow cast by Ivan’s looming frame. Ivan’s humming started to grow into a melody, feet beginning to stumble to the side and forcing Yao’s own to follow.

‘ _Aiyah_ …’ Yao sighed. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Put your hand on my shoulder.’

‘Why?’

Ivan nudged Yao with his nose, the corners of his lips tugging up delicately. ‘Just try it.’

Yao sighed again, more for show than anything else, and rested his hand on Ivan’s shoulder. ‘Happy now-’

In a drunken, sloppy turn, Ivan spun Yao around. Yao inhaled sharply, nearly stumbling off balance at the movement. Ivan laughed, the sound airy and sweet enough for Yao to follow Ivan’s clumsy steps, sways and turns that were perhaps meant to be elegant and measured instead. Ivan continued to hum the tune on his lips, quickening the pace of their dance along with it.

Yao watched the black crosses around them become blurred and indistinguishable. His own breath, becoming mixed and indistinguishable with Ivan’s, shallow and thin as Yao tried to gulp for more, though there never seemed to be enough of it. Ivan’s voice, lowering so that it was barely a gentle a whisper in Yao’s ear, clumsy in its melody and yet leaving Yao leaning closer for more of it.

Yet another spin, the cruel eyes of a stranger staring from the mottled wall. Yao swallowed, twisting anxiety coiling up in his stomach. Another face, scratched out in black. Blackened, shadowy eyes, hungry teeth. Haggard faces, which had once seen Ivan bleed and cry, spun together by moonlight. Yao held on tighter to Ivan, the fabric of his shirt feeling flimsy and papery, like the wrinkled canvas these photos had been imprinted on.

The room continued to twirl around him, the tune losing its steadiness and becoming lost, unsure of itself. But Ivan continued to sway, stumbling and turning with every step. Ivan’s hand drew further around Yao’s waist, curling around it in a way that made Yao’s heart leap to his throat. Yao stumbled over his own steps, yelping when Ivan’s boot crushed his foot. A small gasp escaped Ivan’s lips, their movement coming to an unsteady halt as they bumped against the wall.

‘ _Izvini_ , _myshka_ … I’m sorry… Did I…’ Ivan hiccupped, resting his head on Yao’s shoulder. ‘…hurt you?’

‘I’m fine.’ Yao said, unable to stop his own voice from shaking. ‘You need to lie down.’

Ivan mumbled, though Yao couldn’t understand it. Ivan slowly fell to his knees, hand still loosely entwined with Yao’s. He nuzzled his face into Yao’s stomach, trapping him against the wall.

‘I-Ivan, I didn’t mean here –’

‘You’re soft…’ Ivan lifted his head up, chin pressing into Yao’s stomach as half-lidded eyes gazed up at Yao.

‘Great. Shall we add that to my never-ending list of unmanly traits?’

A smile broke out onto Ivan’s lips. ‘You have manly traits, too.’

Yao rolled his eyes. ‘Get up.’ He tugged at Ivan’s hand.

Ivan pouted. ‘Don’t want to.’

‘You’ll have to.’

‘I’m comfortable here.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ Yao said. He eyed Ivan’s scarf, which had tightened around his throat. Yao reached to adjust it, Ivan flinching at the gesture. Yao slowed his hand, gently tugging at the scarf to loosen it. ‘It’s late. We should both rest for tomorrow.’

Yao’s hand halted. The scar peeked out from beneath the fabric of the scarf. Only now, it was covered in little red welts. Yao pulled away more of the scarf, feeling Ivan tense at this.

‘You’ve been scratching it…’

Ivan blinked, the smile dissolving away. His gaze flickered, became unsure as it lost its hold on Yao’s. He was nothing like the Ivan Yao had first met, nothing like the intimidating man he had confronted all those months ago.

‘It still hurts sometimes. I don’t know how to stop it.’

Yao shook his head, a lump growing in his throat. ‘Y-You don’t.’ He tightened the scarf, covering up the inflamed skin. ‘But it’s okay. It goes away every once in a while, doesn’t it?’ Yao forced a reassuring smile, hoping that it might bring back Ivan’s.

Ivan nodded, though no smile sprang to his lips. Eyelids lowering drowsily, he pressed his forehead to Yao’s stomach. Yao sighed. He kneeled down, holding Ivan’s shoulders to keep them upright.

‘Why don’t we go to your room, okay?’ Yao took ahold on Ivan’s chin, lifting his head up from its sleepy loll. Ivan blinked, nodding once again, lazier this time.

‘Come on.’ Yao guided Ivan up, leading him out of the room. Nearly blind in the dark hallway, Yao felt his hand around for the door of Ivan’s room. Finding it, he pushed it open and brought Ivan to his bed. Ivan flopped onto the bed, groaning as his eyes surveyed the ceiling.

‘It’s spinning…’

Yao seated himself on the bed, sliding off Ivan’s boots. ‘Then close your eyes.’

‘Okay…’

When Yao had set Ivan’s boots aside, he turned around, only to find lilac eyes trained on him. They were glazed over and watery from the vodka, half-lidded and tired though Ivan refused to close them.

‘You’re not closing your eyes.’

‘ _Da_ , I know.’

Yao furrowed his brows. ‘You’re making this difficult for me, you know.’

‘I’m doing my best…’ Ivan chuckled, eyes gently flickering to Yao’s hand where it rested on the bed. Ivan reached his hand out, outstretching his palm towards Yao. ‘I can’t reach…’

Yao blinked, staring at the open palm.

‘Yao…’ Ivan said, dragging the name out in his own child-like sweetness. His hand struggled to stretch out closer to Yao, the gesture somehow making Yao’s cheeks warm up. Yao placed his hand in Ivan’s, hesitating –

_(you’re going to break him)_

Ivan’s hand closed around Yao’s, gentle even as it pulled Yao in. Yao fell against his chest, his breath shaking at the impact. Ivan’s arms snaked around him, squeezing him against a chest that was rising and falling from slow, drunken breaths. Yao struggled to breathe, his heart throbbing loud enough for Ivan to hear, surely. His eyes fluttered closed, feeling Ivan’s lips pressing softly against his forehead and cheeks, wanting to suffocate in these kisses, wanting Ivan’s arms to crush his ribs if it meant being closer to him.

Ivan’s lips trailed onto Yao’s own, nipping at Yao’s bottom lip. Yao pushed his mouth harder into the kiss, hearing Ivan’s breath hitch slightly in surprise. He could taste the vodka on Ivan’s tongue, burning and lighting Yao’s aflame as it smoothed over it. Yao stifled a whimper when Ivan pulled away to nuzzle his jawline, Ivan’s breath ghosting over Yao’s throat as a drunken giggle escaped him.

‘What…’ Yao panted, hand fumbling for Ivan’s face as he felt lips slide down his throat. ‘What are you laughing at…?’

‘You taste nice… I should have done this sooner…’ Ivan hummed, pulling the collar of Yao’s shirt down to suck on his collarbone.

‘Oh…’ Yao’s hand finding itself combing through Ivan’s feather soft hair. His eyelids felt heavy, breath intoxicated and thick. ‘…Make up for lost time, then.’

Ivan nibbled on his collarbone, biting and piercing it until skin grew hot and smouldering. Yao pressed his face into Ivan’s hair, wanting to be even closer, not caring for the pulse that was ebbing wildly in his veins, or the cold hand that was slowly sliding beneath the back of his shirt, smoothing up his spine and –

Ivan’s lips slowed to a halt, pulling away from Yao. His fingers brushed over the ridge of the scar, sending tiny sparks of pain across Yao’s skin. Yao shivered, trying not to wince as the pain forged itself once again in his memory. Ivan looked at Yao in question, brows pinched.

‘ _Aiyah_ … D-Don’t look at me like that.’ Yao propped himself up, pulling away from Ivan’s hold and feeling his face grow warm. ‘It’s an old scar. Don’t even remember how I got it.’

‘So you won’t tell me…?’

Yao shook his head, fighting the lump in his throat that had resurfaced. His heart perhaps, as Ivan’s eyes bore into him with that innocent curiosity, as the guilt boiled up in his stomach for not telling him. ‘I can’t.’

‘Oh.’ Ivan said, disappointment in his voice. The sound fed the boiling, festering guilt in Yao. Ivan had shared so much, trusted Yao with his scars and nightmares whilst Yao had selfishly been keeping his own to himself. Drawing his knees up to his chest, Yao exhaled shakily.

‘But… I can tell you a story, if you want.’ Yao said, his voice sounding smaller than he had intended. ‘It’s… it’s an old one.’

Yao heard the sheets rustle, the bed creaking as Ivan shifted to his side. ‘Tell me, then.’

Yao cleared his throat, jittery nervousness overtaking him. ‘A… A long, long time ago, there was a man who could live forever. He could never die, or grow old, and after thousands of years he felt incredibly lonely.’

‘What was his name?’

‘It… It doesn’t matter.’ Yao said, feeling Ivan’s weight lean closer to him. ‘But one day, he found this tiny little child in a bamboo forest, all on its own. He found out that this child was immortal too, and took it in as his own. He raised it as his own brother, taught it to read and write, watched the little child grow up. But it didn’t last long… The child wasn’t a child anymore, and it didn’t need his older brother anymore either. He waited for his older brother in the shadows, and when he had been found, he pulled out a knife…’

Yao’s voice grew hoarse in his throat, conscious of his back though he knew his shirt was covering up the mark. He drew his arms tighter around his legs, continuing on. ‘The younger brother stabbed him… sliced his back open before the older brother could get away. He left him on the floor, bleeding.’

A short chuckle left Yao’s lips, strained in the way it burst out of him. ‘It hurt so much. The man thought he was going to die, it hurt so much. But he knew he couldn’t… He just… listened to his brother’s footsteps fade away. And do you know how the story ends? The man continued to live on forever and ever and ever, with an ugly scar on his back so he could never forget. The end.’

There was a momentary silence, broken by the creaking of the bed as Ivan got up and rested his chin on Yao’s shoulder.

‘Yao… I think you got the story wrong.’

Yao blinked, only then realising there were tears in his eyes. ‘I did?’

‘ _Da_. Because at the end the man found someone who was like him. And they could both live forever too, so…’

A half-hearted chuckle escaped Yao’s lips. ‘Happily ever after?’

Ivan hummed in agreement, tilting his head towards Yao’s. Yao sighed shakily, perhaps out of relief as he felt Ivan’s drowsy breaths next to him. He blindly reached for Ivan’s hand, taking hold of it and feeling Ivan smile into the crook of his neck.

For better or for worse, their lives were entwined now, until the very bloody end.

 

* * *

 

‘Officer…?’ A sweet voice sent Alfred’s gaze up from the file in his hands. A blonde woman was leaning over from her side of the table, still wearing her heavy winter coat.

‘It’s Detective.’ Alfred said.

‘Detective…?’

‘Detective Alfred Jones.’

The woman’s bewildered blue eyes softened. ‘Alfred… I was wondering if I could do this some other time?’ A shy chuckle escaped her lips. ‘Today is not really convenient, I’m afraid.’

Alfred raised his brows in question, the woman’s pale skin turning pink as she hesitated to answer. She clutched at the bag in her lap with ink stained and jittery fingers. ‘There’s a family emergency I need to attend to.’

Her eyes were earnest, betraying every trembling thought behind them. It was hard to imagine those same quivering hands holding a knife, though Alfred knew better than to simply dismiss the idea. He drew out a sigh, leaning back in his seat.

‘Sorry about the inconvenience. But if I’m honest with you, you should be worried about your own situation right now.’

The sheepish smile fell. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look,’ Alfred gulped down the rest of his cold coffee. ‘Why don’t I just take you through the questions first? I’ll do my best to ask them as fast as I can, and you’ll do your best to answer them. Sounds good?’

The woman nodded. Alfred smiled politely, straightening up in his seat.

‘Good. Now, before we start, there’s something I need to clear up.’ Alfred slid a page out of the file, glancing over it. ‘You said your name was Katherine Davis?’

Alfred glanced up from the paper, the woman nodding.

‘That’s… not what your file says. Any chance you’ll give me your real name?’

The woman blinked. ‘Real name?’ She perked her brows up. ‘Ah, I’m so sorry! I’m so used to being called by my English name…’ She chuckled, though her fingers fidgeted and twisted the strap of her bag. ‘My name is Katyusha Braginskaya.’

‘You have two names?’

Katyusha hummed in agreement. ‘As a young girl I was just Katyusha, no last name. I was an orphan, you see. Braginskaya was sort of given to me out of convenience, since the orphanage was in Bragin and they had to put something on the birth certificate…’ A nervous chuckle slipped out of her lips. ‘But now I go by my adopted family’s name. It’s much easier for people to say.’

Alfred set the page down. ‘And I take it that you were on your way to visit your adopted family then?’

Katyusha paused, flustered as she nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ll try to not keep them waiting then.’ Alfred smiled, watching Katyusha’s tense shoulders relax as she smiled back. ‘Katyusha, I’d like you to start by telling me what you were doing on the 24th.’

‘The 24th… I was working at the clinic.’

‘Yes, your file says you’re a paediatrician?’

Katyusha nodded. ‘It’s always busy, so I didn’t leave work until… around ten I think.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that I went home. Ate dinner and went to sleep.’

‘Do you have any one to confirm that?’

Katyusha hesitated. ‘No… I live on my own.’

‘What kind of car do you drive, Katyusha?’

‘It’s a silver Toyota.’

Alfred opened up the file, flicking through it. ‘License plate number MBB 9391?’

Katyusha nodded. Alfred glanced up at her from the file.

‘And that’s the only car registered in your name?’

‘Yes.’ Katyusha said, though her voice wavered. ‘Why do you ask?’

Alfred shut the file. ‘We found a black pick-up truck abandoned on Route 193. It’s registered in your name. Care to shed some light on that?’

Katyusha blinked in puzzlement, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know, I- I don’t drive a black pick-up truck. It can’t be mine.’

Alfred leaned forward, settling his arms onto the table. ‘That’s not what the records tell us, Katyusha.’

Katyusha swallowed, fidgeting in the heavy coat that she still refused to take off. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done, detective, but I would like to leave. My family is waiting for me.’

 _They’ll just have to keep waiting until you give me some answers_ \- was what Alfred wanted to say in return. But looking at her frantic and nervous blue eyes, he felt guilt holding him back. And for once, he didn’t ignore this thought of self-restraint. Opting for a different approach, he leant back away from the table.

‘Look, I know you want to leave and you have a family that needs you right now.’ Alfred slid a photo out from the file, pushing it across towards Katyusha. ‘But this kid is never going to have the chance to see his again.’

Katyusha’s gaze caught onto the photo, her brows pinching together. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know him.’

‘His name is Yong Soo Im. He was stabbed to death on Christmas Eve.’

Katyusha tore her gaze away from the photo, pushing it back towards Alfred. ‘I’m really sorry, but this has nothing to do with me.’

‘Katyusha.’ Alfred waited for her eyes to meet his. ‘It does have something to do with you.’

‘I don’t even know him!’

Alfred pulled out another photo, this one more worn out and curled at the corners. ‘But you know him, don’t you? Yao Wang?’

Katyusha’s eyes remained transfixed on the photo for a split second, before snapping her gaze back to Alfred. ‘No.’

‘Katyusha. His prints were all over your pick-up truck.’

Katyusha hesitated, opening her mouth to speak before closing it. Alfred set the photo down.

‘I know you’re protecting him. That’s who you were on your way to visit, isn’t it? I’m gonna make a wild guess and say its medical supplies you were going to bring him?’

Her eyes widened, unable to even conceal their own shock as her fidgety hands froze in place.

Alfred leaned forward, the chair screeching slightly against the floor. ‘He’s not going to last long in hiding, Katyusha. Him or his friend.’

Katyusha said nothing, her face tinged pink. Alfred pressed on.

‘What you’re doing… It’s a criminal offence. Aiding and abetting a murderer - you’re looking at seven, maybe eight years behind bars? And that’s just best case scenario. Cooperate with me here and you might just shave off a few years from that sentence.’

The room fell silent, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Alfred kept his eyes trained on Katyusha’s, watching them for the slightest hint of self-doubt. But nervous as they were, she gave no sign of surrendering. No longer warm, her expression seemed to go cold in the absence of voices. Alfred knew this expression well – it was one of withdrawal, of numbing yourself so that nothing else could show through. But Alfred would not let her go through with it.

‘Do you really think you’re helping them like this?’ Alfred asked, leaning closer. ‘You’re not. They’re sick, both of them. And the sooner you give them up, the sooner they can get the help they need.’

‘You would rather kill them than help them!’ Katyusha snapped, her voice trembling. ‘I know what happens to people like them! You hurt them just the same as anyone else in their lives!’

Katyusha’s breath shuddered, unable to keep her gaze still as it trailed frantically between Alfred and the photos strewn on the table. Alfred opened up the file, flipping through to the photo of Yong Soo’s corpse. He slid the photo across to Katyusha.

‘Does this look like you’ve been helping them?’

A small gasp escaped Katyusha’s lips, her quivering fingers reaching for the photo. She pulled it closer, her breaths hitching as her eyes bore into the photo.

‘That’s Yong Soo you’re looking at, in case you couldn’t tell.’

She looked up at Alfred, a horrified expression contorting her face. Her panting breaths turned into withheld sobs, her hands falling weak and letting the photo slip out from her grasp.

‘I…I didn’t know…’ She croaked out. Her eyes looked to Alfred pleadingly. ‘It… It was only bad people, he said… Just the bad ones…’

‘Yong Soo was just a kid, Katyusha. Nineteen years old.’

A cry broke through her lips, Katyusha clutching at her face as if to withhold it. Her body sank, arms sliding against the table surface as her head buried itself into the sleeves of her coat. Shoulders shook as sobs rang out, and Alfred could only sit through it wordlessly.

Once again, he had pushed it too far. Only this time, he hadn’t just struck a nerve, or pried into someone’s dirty secret. He had done much more damage than that, and Alfred knew this too well from the sound of her crying, soft in the dusty silence.

‘Katyusha.’ Alfred said when the sobs had died down. ‘Listen to me.’

She lifted her blonde head up, the ink from her fingertips smearing onto her skin as she wiped her reddened eyes. She looked almost child-like, her rounded and soft features pinched in distress. Alfred handed her a tissue.

‘You need to give them up. For your own good.’

Katyusha took the tissue, straightening up in her seat and wiping the ink from her eyes. ‘You don’t know what I-’ She hesitated, perhaps reconsidering her words. ‘What he means to me. He’s all I really have.’

‘Does anyone else in your family know?’

Katyusha shook her head. ‘No, my…’ She exhaled sharply. ‘My adoptive parents died two years ago in a car accident. They were the only family I had other than I-’ She pursed her lips, averting her eyes away from Alfred. A pause settled, leaving Alfred to fill in the silence once again.

‘You’re still not giving them up, are you?’

Katyusha stared into the table surface. ‘If you want, lock me up instead. You’ve already taken my fingerprints, haven’t you?’ She lifted her hands up, waving her purple stained fingers. ‘I’ll stay the night in a cell, too, if you want.’ A sad smile crept up on her lips. ‘As long as the place I end up in is warm… I’m happy.’

* * *

The early morning light crawled at its own achingly slow pace, a heart beating steadily, firmly, within Ivan’s chest. The sound of it lulled and lingered in Yao’s ears, drawing him further into sleep though he could never quite reach it. It had been like this for the past few hours, Yao balanced on the fine line between wakefulness and sleep, tortuously teetering over the edge for a few moments before being yanked back into reality. Yao couldn’t say for sure why, but there was a little thought that somehow, maybe, it was because this was a moment he was meant to stay in, to completely take up before it could pass him by. The thought left him uneasy, unsure – why was it there? Anxiety simmered within him as he felt Ivan’s chest rise and fall in deep, untroubled breaths. The moment was achingly precious, and it twisted his stomach in fear.

A gust of wind pierced through the boarded up windows, ice cold as it ghosted over the sheets. Yao shivered, burying his face further into Ivan’s chest in an attempt to keep whatever little warmth saved between them. Yao drew out a sigh, remembering the two corpses waiting for them in the downstairs room. One of which, was never meant to be a corpse in the first place.

Yao propped himself up onto his elbows, careful not to disturb Ivan. At what point had they even fallen asleep? He couldn’t quite remember the moment, though he was sure it was Ivan that had dragged him beneath the sheets and into a tight embrace. Yao struggled to retrieve the moment from his memory as he got out of bed, drawing the blanket back over Ivan before going downstairs.

Walking through the downstairs hallway, the door of the ‘workshop’ – though Ivan rarely called it that anymore – was wide open, causing Yao to halt in his steps. He spotted the faint outline of a corpse lying on the table in the dark room. He switched the light on, the body glaring white beneath the flickering light. On the floor beside the table, a large black bag.

It was an ugly sight – pale lumpy flesh splayed out on the table, capped by a mess of red where a face should have been. The body had begun to smell, its rotten stench filling up Yao’s nostrils. He gagged, grabbing a pair of gloves and rolling his sleeves up. He would get rid of it, cut the body up and make it disappear so that Ivan would not have to wake up to this horrid sight.

 _I almost lost him yesterday, to this pig…_ Yao thought, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he picked up a blood stained saw – not wanting to make too much noise with the chainsaw. As he wiped away old splotches from the blade, he thought of the way Ivan had touched the mirror, as if his own reflection were foreign. It had sent Yao’s heart into a leap, afraid he had let Ivan go too far. It was getting too much for the both of them, though Yao had never once considered stopping.

He had felt something terrifying in the way Ivan held him the night before, too tightly and too desperately. It made Yao’s stomach churn in sickening twists, feeling as though he was losing a piece of Ivan to every corpse they brought home.

Swallowing back down the bitter taste rising in his mouth, Yao hauled the blade of the saw up. He positioned it onto the man’s forearm and prepared to cut away, only to find that the corpse had been laid off centre on the table. It was too close to the edge, and set slightly diagonally so that the feet rested on the other side of the table. Yao put the saw down and pulled the man’s legs with both hands, dragging them to align them with the rest of the body. But the limbs were heavy, resisting every pull. Yao yanked with greater force, not quite watching the man’s upper body situated dangerously close to the edge. He shifted the man’s legs to the centre, perhaps too abruptly, and sent the upper part of the corpse toppling over the edge.

The body slid off the table and thwacked against the floor. Bits of flesh from the man’s mangled face splattered across Yao’s feet, ice cold and wet on his skin. Yao gasped, nearly jumping back into the shelves behind him. Rotten blood dripping down his feet, Yao withheld a shiver. He crouched down to lift the body back up, only managing to haul the corpse’s weight a few inches off the floor before dropping it.

‘ _Aiyah_ …’ Yao stood up, wanting to retch as he felt cold flesh resting against his feet. He stepped away from it, gripping the edge of the table as he stared at the monstrous lump on the floor. He couldn’t leave it like this. He couldn’t wake Ivan up either, not after last night’s incident. Yao groaned, not even able to rub his face in frustration.

_There’s blood everywhere…_

‘Something the matter?’ A loud voice muffled through the walls. Yao tensed, walking out into the hallway and peering into the kitchen. Arthur was stood in it, fridge open and a curious look directed at Yao.

‘What are you doing?’ Yao frowned, watching a teasing dry smile tug at Arthur’s lips.

‘If no one’s going to feed me, I might as well go hunting for it myself.’

‘Whatever happened to staying a prisoner?’ Yao elbowed the fridge door shut, nearly catching Arthur’s hand in it.

‘I was hungry and curious, Yao. You can’t blame me for bending the rules a little. Also, if you don’t mind me asking…’ He held up a lump of frozen meat. ‘This is pork, right? ’

Yao grit his teeth, hissing. ‘Put that back. And keep your voice down!’

Arthur studied Yao for a moment, eyes lingering on Yao’s hands and feet. ‘Do you… need help with something?’ He put the frozen meat back in the freezer, shutting it loudly and earning a glare from Yao.

‘No. Go back to the basement.’

‘Are you sure? You look like a bloody mess.’

 _You’ll be a bloody mess if you keep this up_. But Yao only cleared his throat, remembering the heavy corpse he had left on the floor.

‘You know what,’ Yao forced a curt and restrained voice. ‘I actually do need your help. Come with me.’

Yao walked back into the workshop, offering Arthur a pair of gloves. Arthur slipped the gloves on, not even blinking as he glanced over the corpse.

‘Yours or his?’ Arthur asked.

‘What?’

Arthur turned to look at Yao. ‘Is it yours or Ivan’s?’

Yao furrowed his brows. ‘That doesn’t matter. Help me put it on the table.’ Yao stepped over the body and grabbed the man’s arms.

‘You’ve got another in that bag? Yao, I’m impressed -’

‘Just shut up and help me!’ Yao hissed, wanting to get this over with so he could wash the blood off his feet. Arthur huffed in amusement and grabbed the corpse by the ankles.

‘Alright then.’ Arthur looked up at Yao. ‘On the count of three?’

Yao nodded, tightening his grip on the man’s forearm. It felt cold and stiff, Yao’s stomach boiling in repulsion as his fingertips pressed into it. He began to count, and on three Yao and Arthur lifted the body up, their balance wavering as they dumped it onto the table.

‘Okay…’ Yao panted, picking up the saw and ignoring the slight ache of his left hand. ‘Now I want you to hold it still while I cut away. Be careful with your fingers.’

‘That’s very considerate of you.’

Yao looked up at Arthur, realising he had only just echoed what Ivan had told him countless times. He snapped his gaze back to the corpse, settling the blade on the man’s forearm. ‘I only said it out of habit. You can let me cut you up too, if you want. Saves us both a lot of trouble.’

‘I’ll pass.’ Arthur held down the arm of the corpse as Yao began to saw away. ‘But thank you for offering.’

Yao pursed his lips, withholding an exasperated sigh. Cutting through the bone and remaining flesh of the man’s arm, he picked the limb up with feigned ease – though it felt heavier than he would ever let Arthur know. ‘Put it in the tub over there. Don’t let it splash.’

Arthur took the limb, cradled in his arms as he walked over to the small tub. He peered into it, expression drawn in curiosity. There was a hum of interest, before easing the limb into the tub and returning to hold down the upper part of the man’s arm.

Yao began to dig the saw into the shoulder of the dead body, crunching through cartilage and scraping against bone. Though the sounds were not foreign to Yao, they rang loud and fresh in his ears. Yao pushed a breath out, fighting the light-headedness that was starting to creep up on him.

‘I’m going to make a wild guess and say we’re not doing anything fun with the corpse?’ Arthur said, disappointment in his voice.

Yao furrowed his brows, looking up at Arthur for further explanation.

‘Well, it is only cutting him up and letting him dissolve away. I must say, it’s not terribly creative.’

‘It’s practical. That’s all it needs to be.’ Yao said, returning his gaze back to the arm and continuing to cut through. The saw snapped against the table, cutting free the piece of flesh and sending a small shiver through Yao.

‘You wouldn’t want to… I don’t know.’ Arthur picked the piece of the man up. ‘Make it look a little pretty? Sew his face back up? Throw in a couple of roses-’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Yao watched Arthur place the shoulder piece into the tub, wondering if perhaps he had unknowingly brought back a monster into his home. When Arthur turned around, his eyes pierced through Yao, too intimate in the way they stared.

‘I assuming it’s too dangerous to play games with corpses now.’ Arthur returned to the table, pressing his palms against the edge of it, as if eager to continue on with cutting up the body. ‘I understand you left a mess at ‘The Poisoned Apple’?’

Yao set the saw down, palms warm and jittery. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Darling,’ Arthur grinned. ‘You were covered in blood when I met you.’

Yao exhaled slowly, unsettled by something in the way Arthur was looking at him. ‘Yeah, I was. But you also knew my name without me telling you.’

There was a flicker of hesitation in Arthur’s expression, grin faltering. ‘Yes, well… I suppose you could say I knew you from afar.’

‘What does that even mean?’ Yao frowned, worry beginning to stir in his stomach. ‘You make it sound like you’ve been following me around.’

Arthur hummed, flickering his gaze to the dead body. ‘Right you are… in a way.’

Yao blinked. ‘Is that supposed to mean you were following me around?’

Arthur only shrugged. ‘Let’s get on with the other arm, shall we?’

Feeling too unsettled to press any further, too lightheaded to even hold up this conversation, Yao picked up the saw and began to work on the other arm, all the while feeling watched. He felt Arthur’s gaze burn into him, picking apart every expression on Yao’s face. It sent the sickening feeling only lurching further up from Yao’s stomach, his lungs smothered by the stench of blood and Arthur’s sweat.

Slicing through the arm, Yao lifted his head up and contained the sigh he wanted to take. He turned to look at Arthur, met by his green irises – almost cat-like in the way they followed Yao.

‘You’re staring at me.’ Yao said. ‘What is it?’

‘Is that a bite mark on your collarbone?’ A small smile crept up on Arthur’s face, almost unable to contain itself on his lips. ‘I take it I’m not the only one getting a taste of Yao?’

‘Do you want to lose your tongue?’

‘I think we’ve established you’re incapable of cutting my tongue, Yao.’

Yao raised a brow. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I’m guessing you would also tell me that cutting a man’s tongue is not all that difficult.’

‘Possibly.’ Arthur said, though his smile gave the impression that he was more than sure of this.

Yao opened up the dead man’s mouth, holding in his breath while he did so, and pried out a swollen tongue. He let the tongue sit on pale lips, turning around to the knife rack and picking out a blade. He handed the knife to Arthur.

‘Go on, then.’

Arthur grabbed the knife. ‘I will.’ He took hold of the tongue, setting the blade against the top of the tongue. Yao heard him take a breath and gag on the stench. Arthur shifted in his balance, fidgeting with the knife as the room fell silent. For nearly half a minute, Yao waited before Arthur broke the silence.

‘Tell me,’ Arthur said, is eyes still trained on the darkened and bloated tongue. ‘What do you think of when you kill someone?’

Yao furrowed his brows. ‘What do I think of?’

Arthur nodded, swallowing as his hand twitched in its hold of the tongue. ‘I’m sure you have something in mind, when you’re cutting up someone…’

‘It’s different when they’re actually breathing.’

‘I know that.’ Arthur snapped, breaths deepening by the slightest. ‘But I’m asking you… What’s it like?’

Yao folded his arms, leaning his hips against the table as he sighed. ‘You don’t really feel anything. At least, not while it’s happening. Your mind just kind of goes blank.’

Arthur chuckled, his laugh dry and sarcastic to Yao’s ears. ‘Is that really it? Nothing?’

‘It’s only when you start thinking that you stop cutting them up. When you start noticing what you’ve actually done.’ Yao said, stomach beginning to coil up and twist inside him as the memory of Yong Soo’s bloodied face eased its way into his mind. Even the sound of Yong Soo’s voice climbed into his head, a broken croak by the time Yao had finished with him.

‘Why do you do it then?’

‘Hm?’ Yao glanced up at Arthur.

‘You don’t make it sound very enjoyable. So why do you do it?’

Yao held Arthur’s gaze for a moment. ‘I don’t choose to do it. Not always.’

‘And the times that you do?’

Yao felt a lump form in his throat – though he couldn’t quite tell if it was nausea from the stench, or something else entirely. He forced it back down, searching for an answer he didn’t have. Arthur had caught the slight movement, green irises trailing over Yao’s throat with piqued interest. Feeling exposed, unjustifiably dissected by Arthur’s questions, Yao took a step back.

‘Why don’t you start cutting already? You’re wasting time.’

Arthur’s curious expression faltered, replaced by an empty smile. Polite, Yao presumed, though it was more so a teasing one than anything else.

‘Alright. I’ll think of nothing, then.’

Arthur took a deep breath, pressing the blade into the dark tongue. It sliced through almost effortlessly, deep crimson pouring out as the knife struck through a vein. Yao felt sick at the sight, his folded arms tightening as he fought down the boiling mass in his stomach. The stench intensified, leaving Yao dizzy though he was familiar with it. He gripped the edge of the table, hoping Arthur wouldn’t notice. But as Arthur set the lump of flesh onto the dead man’s chest, he too swayed in his balance, almost doubling over.

‘I…’ Arthur coughed, leaving the knife to fall out from his hand and clang against the floor. ‘I can’t believe how easy that was…’ He turned his head towards Yao, the freckles on his skin more prominent as he paled.

‘You don’t look like you had an easy time doing it.’ Yao said, keeping his voice as steady as he could without letting the smell of rotting flesh overwhelm him.

‘Hey.’ Arthur panted, chuckling. ‘You don’t look so good, ei-’ Arthur began to heave, knuckles whitening as they gripped the edge of the table. Yao walked over to him, grabbing the collar of his shirt.

‘I’m not letting you make this room more of a mess.’ Yao tugged at his shirt. ‘Come on, get up.’

‘Help-’ Arthur’s shoulders convulsed, shaking as the coughs grew more violent. ‘Help me… then.’

Yao sighed in exasperation, pulling Arthur up by the arms. He led Arthur back to the basement, leaving him towels and a glass of water. When he made his way back to the workroom, his vision had become hazy at the edges, every footstep seemingly tilting the whole world at an odd angle. He pushed his back against a wall to keep himself steady, gaze trailing over the bloodstained floor and the unfinished corpse before him. The black bag, waiting expectantly by the table.

Yao groaned, the sight only thinning out his breaths further. There was so much of it, of this disgusting corpse and the images that came with it. Of Yong Soo’s own torn face, and every other body Yao had left ripped up and bloody. He had always thought it was beautiful in some strange, twisted way. He thought Ivan did, too.

But now, as he settled his eyes upon the dark piece of flesh atop the man’s chest, Yao could only feel repulsion spitting and bubbling at the back of his throat. The black bag, the next body waiting to be chopped up into pieces, only sickened Yao further. And as if seeing his own handiwork for the first time, Yao realised just how ugly it all really was.

* * *

 

Alfred went to shut the door behind him, file tucked beneath his arm. A tired sigh eased out of him.

‘You were cruel to her.’

Alfred looked up, finding Kiku leaning with his back against the wall, a plastic cup in his hands.

Kiku shifted slightly, perhaps just noticing his own sudden boldness. He cleared his throat, lowering his gaze to the floor. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’

Alfred pushed the door closed, a click echoing out into the hallway. ‘Yeah, well…’

_You can’t always be the good guy._

‘Interviews never were my strong point.’ Alfred said instead. ‘Would have been nice if you were there, though. Can’t do my ‘good cop bad cop’ routine without you.’

‘Forgive me. I was busy running a background check.’

‘Yeah?’ Alfred stabbed the cane into the marble floor idly, fiddling with it as he tilted it from side to side. Though Kiku was still not making eye contact, Alfred spotted the curious gaze directed at the cane. ‘I thought we were done with those. Who was it on?’

The plastic cup crinkled between Kiku’s fingers, the plastic snapping in the awkward silence. Kiku looked up to Alfred, a crease between his brows.

‘Alfred… What’s going to happen to them when we arrest them?’

Alfred blinked. ‘Same thing that happens to all the guys we catch, man. They get locked up. Though,’ Alfred rubbed his forehead, brushing back his fringe. ‘I have a feeling these guys might be going straight to death row.’

Kiku stared back at Alfred, expression still as stone. ‘I see. And you’re comfortable with this?’

There was a momentary pause. ‘What are you talking about, man?’ Alfred said. ‘Of course I am. You’ve seen what these guys do, we’ve both seen it. How does anyone just wait it out in prison after killing seventy seven innocent men and women?’

‘I’m not sure if they were innocent men and women…’

‘Seventy-eight if we count Arthur.’ Alfred said, feeling his hand grow warm and clammy where it held the cane. ‘You’d let them grow old and play chess in some pampered up cell for killing Arthur? Is that what you’re telling me?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Then what the hell are you trying to say?’ Alfred raised his voice, Kiku’s eyes becoming startled for a fleeting moment. Quickly, Kiku regained his calm expression.

‘Nothing, Alfred.’ Kiku straightened up, no longer leaning against the wall. ‘Please forget what I said. I’m sure…’ Kiku trailed his gaze around Alfred, not quite meeting his eyes. ‘I’m sure we’ll find Arthur soon. Please excuse me.’

Kiku turned to leave, Alfred catching him by the arm. Kiku tensed, though Alfred had expected this.

‘Sorry. For bursting out like that.’

‘It’s fine.’ Kiku offered a polite smile, weak and plastic. ‘Let’s just catch these men as soon as we can.’

‘Y-Yeah…’ Alfred released Kiku’s arm, watching him walk down the cold hallway. ‘Kiku?’

‘Yes?’ Kiku stopped and turned back slightly.

‘The uh… The search warrant. You’ve got it?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘Right…’ Alfred nodded. ‘That’s…that’s good. I’ll just… let you go do that then.’

‘You should rest, Alfred.’ Kiku said, though his face remained cold and distant. ‘There’s not much further to go, but you need to take care of yourself.’

‘Yeah- no, I know.’ Alfred chuckled. ‘I’m fine, man. Don’t worry about me.’

Kiku smiled – this time the gesture was genuine. He turned away and left, leaving Alfred standing in the hallway. He let out a drawn out breath, feeling his shoulders slump as if to pull him towards the ground, aching for rest. He hadn’t been getting enough sleep, exactly… but that wasn’t anything coffee couldn’t fix, at least for the moment. He had to keep running, to keep searching until he closed the case – until he found Arthur.

 _You didn’t leave much of a trail, though, did you…?_ Alfred leaned onto the cane, the sides of it covered in scratches from hitting it against the desk too much. He had tried polishing them away, but they stubbornly had remained.

 _You feed and care for a pack of strays, and yet you can’t even keep a bloody cane in good_ _condition?_ \- at least that’s what he imagined Arthur would say. An amused smile tugged at Alfred’s lips.

 _I don’t even like him that much…_ And yet, something felt missing when the Englishman wasn’t around to taunt him. Perhaps even more so, the thought of that pitiful man being subjected to death or worse – it was one that sent Alfred’s insides into a tangled, frenzied mess, the smile fading away as quickly as it had appeared.

Alfred made his way down the hallway, his palms damp with sweat. He wouldn’t let this fear ruin him once more, as it already did so long ago. He would find Arthur, and he would be in one piece, unharmed, and just as frustrating as ever. Yes… Alfred would do this, and end this chase for good.

* * *

‘Just let me go! Please!’

Ivan watched the shadow writhe, twisting in the grip of another. Panic, high-strung in a gentle voice that had never begged like this before. Other, rougher voices overpowered it, vicious when their prey broke loose from their grip. A knife gleamed in the dark, a squelch – the first drop of blood to be drawn. But Ivan remained still, hiding in the shadows of the alleyway even as the figures fell to the ground in a struggle.

A distant streetlight illuminated the pale face of a man, contorted with fear as a scar faced man straddled him. Ink black hair, splayed out onto the cemented ground like twisted vines. Ivan watched in fascination as the smaller man’s hands plunged a knife into the scar-faced man’s throat, did not even think to intervene as crimson droplets spattered across the pavement, across pale and shivering skin. It’s too beautiful, too mesmerizing, much too –

A cry. It broke out into the air like ice, cold and crushed. The sound pierced Ivan, pierced his chest and his heart the way his own cries did. He stepped out of the shadows, thinking maybe, maybe this smaller man was like him. Left with no choice, left with knowing only fear and anger and rejection. Maybe…

The smaller man was gone, the bloody and torn body of the scar faced man in his wake. Ivan felt the pads of gentle fingertips on the nape of his neck. He turned around to the shadows, Yao in their place.

‘This way, Ivan. Come on.’

Ivan followed Yao, their footsteps lighting up an unfamiliar living room. The sound of glass crunched beneath his boots, causing a shiver to sprout from within his chest. He sat at a couch, legs growing heavy and numb as his gaze trailed over the state of the room. Stretches of blood were thrown across the walls and ceiling, pooling at the bottom of the chair. Ivan’s eyes travelled up, away from the floor to find the dark and torn mess of a man. It had been one Ivan had created – the formless, bleeding lump of a man.

He parted his lips to speak, only to be interrupted by a low guttural groan from the other side of the room. The silhouette of the man in the chair shifted, the shadow of his lumpy head lolling to the side. Ivan swallowed, a bitter taste filling up his mouth.                                                                                                      

‘I’ll do it.’ Yao said, pulling away from Ivan.

‘N-No.’ Ivan drew Yao back, tugging him by the hem of his shirt in a frenzied panic. Yao blinked in surprise, drawing back in towards Ivan with his brows furrowed in question.

Ivan felt his lungs expand, taking in more air as Yao’s legs pressed against his. ‘You… you shouldn’t.’

Yao smiled, wiping away at the blood splotches on Ivan’s face. The pit of Ivan’s stomach stirred, a heat rising from it as Yao leaned forward to press a kiss on the bridge of his nose. He felt Yao’s soft exhale on his skin, tearing the ache in Ivan’s chest further.

‘Let me finish this for you.’

 _Please don’t-_ The words tangled themselves, caught in Ivan’s throat along with the sickening lump that writhed and twisted within him. The man in the chair groaned once again, his voice gurgling through a jaw Ivan had crumbled to pieces. Ivan felt his throat constrict, dried up and hoarse as he felt Yao’s hand pull away from his. He watched Yao pick up the pipe from its end, grasping it with fingers that had been stained red.

_(Just imagine how good it would feel to smash this face in, to send it flying into nothingness, myshka…)_

Yao lifted the rusty pipe up, positioning it in front of the man’s face and swinging it back and forth in practice motions. Just like then, when the sight of Yao’s bloody hands had not sent a lurching nausea through Ivan’s throat, had not festered as a feverish guilt in his chest. Every swing sent Ivan’s heart racing faster, squeezing harder so that it throbbed like a fresh wound.

_(I’m not a killer. I’m not like you. I can’t.)_

Ivan could still hear the sweetness, the tremor in Yao’s voice as he said those words. The horrified look in his dark, rounded eyes as Ivan offered him the stage. The trembling of Yao’s arms as he arched the pipe back in preparation… the very same motion that Yao now followed through with practiced ease.

_(Oh, but you can…)_

‘Don’t!’ Ivan stumbled forward and fell to the floor, though the pipe had already struck the man with a squelch. A chunk of the man’s mangled head flew toward him. He felt hot droplets dot his skin, burning and seeping into him as the room stood still. Yao turned toward Ivan, the end of the pipe still lodged in the lumps of flesh atop the man’s neck, crumbling and dripping -

Ivan jolted beneath the sheets, the taste of blood sprouting on his tongue. He stared at the mottled ceiling, breaths heaving in and out of him. It had only been a nightmare, yet another… Ivan should have been accustomed to them by now. But even so, he couldn’t stop the feverish sweat that coated his forehead, the paranoid feeling that the nightmare was somehow real. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he sat up.

Agony ripped through his head. Ivan groaned, overwhelmed by the stench of vodka on his clothes, though he couldn’t recall drinking all that much. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, almost losing balance as he stood up. With a throbbing headache, he went downstairs, peering into each and every room on his way. With Yao nowhere to be found, Ivan stopped in front of the basement door. Before he could reach the door handle, the sound of rustling snow stopped him still. He hurried outside, the nightmares still fresh enough for his mind to make terrifying leaps of logic.

His socked feet sinking into the deep snow, he caught sight of Yao. A shovel in hand, Yao was digging up snow and dirt, still dressed in his dishevelled clothes from yesterday. Ivan approached him, and though the snow crunched beneath his footsteps, Yao did not turn around.

‘Yao?’

Yao spun around, nearly dropping the shovel in the process. Behind him, a dug up grave in the snow.

‘What are you doing?’ Ivan spotted the empty black bag by the dirt pile, taking a step forward to peer into the grave.

‘Just go back inside, Ivan.’ Yao blocked him, though Ivan could already see the pale corpse of a young man in the ditch. Ivan fought the urge to stumble back, breath unsteady as he fought the overwhelming sickness. He could see the blackened and bloody slit across the body’s throat, the deathly pale complexion of an unfamiliar face, one that didn’t belong with all the others, the crossed out profiles on Ivan’s wall.

‘I couldn’t cut him up like the other one. But I’m taking care of it, okay? Please, just… Go inside.’

Ivan swallowed, watching Yao’s pale hands clutching the shovel, trembling in the cold. ‘L-Let me help.’

‘No.’

‘You’ll get sick like this.’

‘Won’t you?’ Yao’s eyes flitted to Ivan’s feet, socks drenched in the melting snow.

‘It doesn’t matter if I do.’

Yao’s brows furrowed. ‘It never does to you, does it?’

‘Just let me do it.’ Ivan reached out for the shovel. Yao stepped away, holding the shovel closer to his chest. Yao sighed and turned around, scooping dirt into the grave.

‘You can stay if you want. But I’m not letting you bury him.’

‘I’ll stay then.’ Ivan said, though Yao didn’t seem to pay much attention. He watched the shovel eat away at the dirt pile, staining the snow around it. With each scoop of the shovel Yao’s breaths grew shallower, the movement getting lazier each time. When the pile of dirt was halfway gone, Yao stopped. He stabbed the shovel into the snow and leaned onto it, balance swaying.

‘Yao?’

‘I’m fine, just… a little…’ Yao’s knees buckled, his body falling towards the ground. Ivan reached out and caught him, the shovel slipping out of Yao’s hands.

‘Yao!’ Ivan knelt onto the ground, Yao’s body slumping down with him. Ivan gently shook Yao’s face, his cheek cold to the touch. Yao groaned, weakly swatting away Ivan’s hand.

‘I’m fine, I said. Just… sick of that stench….’

‘You should let me finish it, _myshka_. You look pale.’

Yao shook his head, struggling to get up as he grumbled back incoherently. Ivan drew him back into his hold.

‘At least wait until you’ve recovered, _da_?’

Yao huffed out in protest, though he fell limp in Ivan’s arms without much more than that. ‘Have you even recovered yet?’

‘Hm?’

‘You still stink of vodka.’

‘Oh.’ Ivan chuckled. ‘A bottle is nothing to me, _myshka_. I can handle it.’

‘Really…’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘You were waltzing, Ivan. That sounds pretty drunk to me.’

Ivan blinked, suddenly recalling stepping on Yao’s foot, dragging him around the room in ridiculous stumbles and turns. The memory warmed his face up a little.

‘I stepped on you...’

Yao chuckled. ‘Yeah. You did.’

‘Does it hurt?’

Yao shook his head, letting it rest more comfortably against Ivan’s chest. ‘Do you…’ Yao hesitated, teeth chattering from the cold. ‘Do you remember anything else?’

Ivan felt Yao tremble slightly, presumably shivering from the cold. But there was also something else, some other kind of uneasiness as Ivan held Yao close. He thought of the smooth skin he had felt yesterday, the swollen ridge of a scar on Yao’s back, the story Yao had so timidly told him.

Ivan pulled his scarf off, ignoring the bite of the cold wind. ‘I remember a story you told me.’ He wrapped the scarf around Yao’s throat, Yao tilting his head back in question. ‘And the ending I gave it.’

A small, hesitant smile grew on Yao’s lips, his red-stained fingers touching the scarf in thought. He turned his head back towards the grave, sighing. ‘I was just thinking… In that story, they would be planting sunflowers, wouldn’t they?’

 _Not dead bodies_ – the words had crawled their way into Ivan’s head, unwelcome. He hummed absent-mindedly in agreement, drawing his arms tighter around Yao. Envious almost, of the story’s inhabitants. They could have their sunflowers, their warmth and their happy ending. Out here, Ivan felt as if he had to grasp for it, hold onto it before it was blown away by the icy wind. Desperately unfair, is what it felt like.

Yao shifted in Ivan’s hold, making as if to get up. ‘It’s cold. Let’s get this grave done and over with.’

Ivan nodded, helping Yao up. In spite of Yao’s protests, he shovelled the last few piles of dirt and snow onto the grave, having to insist that he was okay with it. Truth was, he wasn’t okay with it. In fact, Ivan wasn’t sure if he was okay with any of this anymore. Somewhere along the way, cutting flesh had lost its charm, and watching Yao get his hands stained in blood and dirt had become like something out of a nightmare.

Ivan dropped the shovel into the snow, hoping he would never have to use it again for anything other than sunflower planting. There were only three uncrossed pictures left… only three more monsters left to kill, and yet Ivan could feel his resolve crumbling. Couldn’t he stay with Yao, have the happy ending his imaginary self seemed to have?

That night, Ivan found himself falling asleep with Yao in his arms again, the warmth kinder than any crackling fire or bottle of vodka could give. But even so, Ivan couldn’t help but think that as long as those faces hung on his wall, as long as those three remained uncrossed, his nightmares would always come back. As long as there was blood waiting to be spilt, Yao would be the one to shoulder the burden along with Ivan. Yao’s hands would always carry the stains of Ivan’s kills, the scars of the dangers Ivan might put him in.

No, Ivan would have kill the nightmare before it could kill them. He would end it, so he could give Yao more than just dead bodies and drunken embraces, so they could reach for that sunlit happy ending. So that it wouldn’t have to remain as just a far-away, distant wish. He wanted it to be more than that.

Ivan closed his eyes against the nape of Yao’s neck, hearing Yao’s contented sigh and feeling his resolve mend itself in his chest. For that sigh alone, Ivan would cast aside his crimson-stained pipe.

For Yao, he would end this bloody nightmare for good.


	20. Out of the Shadows

‘Kiku!’ Yao shouted from the porch, the lazy afternoon sun warming his skin. He could see Kiku standing beneath the shade of a tree, staring up at the branches.

 _He’s so tiny_ , Yao thought, remembering how Kiku had been even scrawnier only a year ago. It had taken much of Yao’s persistence to get him to eat more, to fill out his bony frame. But even a year later, Kiku still very much looked like the child Yao had found in the dirty alleyway, the same starved eyes and the same skinny build.

It worried Yao, had him thinking that maybe he wasn’t doing his best to care for him even though Yao was no more than a child himself. He was still a grade schooler, a kid who had his own preoccupation with doing his best in class to please his parents - perhaps even one day surpass his cousin Jin, who his mother had almost always held up as a ‘stellar’ example of success.

But for Yao, Kiku was his real success. Kiku was his own, in some way. Yao had found him, had fed him and taught him how to read. He had even taught Kiku a bit of Mandarin, though Kiku never seemed all that interested. But even so, Yao had felt as though he had made him, moulded him out of the shivering child he had met a year ago. More than a friend or brother – Kiku was his.

‘Kiku!’ Yao shouted again, hopping down the steps and walking across the dead leaves that were strewn across the front yard. ‘It’s getting dark. Come inside.’

Kiku didn’t answer, didn’t even turn to look. Yao sighed in exasperation, quickening his steps to reach Kiku.

‘Ki-ku.’ Yao dragged the name out as he shook Kiku’s shoulder, finally earning Kiku’s attention. His eyes, a deep chocolate brown in afternoon sunlight, looked at Yao as if watching something far off and distant.

‘It’s stuck.’

‘What’s stuck?’

Kiku nodded up towards the tree branches. Yao followed his gaze, finding a red ball lodged between two branches.

‘Oh.’ Yao frowned. He wouldn’t be able to reach it, in spite of the fact that he was a little taller than Kiku. ‘Well, maybe we can get my dad to take it down for you-’

‘He’s not going to.’

‘What do you mean?’

Kiku’s brows furrowed slightly, the only indication he ever gave of annoyance or anger. ‘He’s just not.’

‘But he’s just inside-’ Yao turned around towards the house, spotting his father through the living room window. His father was watching, arms crossed.

‘I tried to climb up before. I fell down and he didn’t do anything.’ Kiku paused, as if deciding something. ‘He hates me.’

‘My dad doesn’t hate you.’ Yao said, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. Of course his father didn’t _hate_ Kiku. Neither of his parents did. They wanted the best for Kiku, just as Yao did, surely.

But Yao knew Kiku was an extra mouth to feed for his parents. Almost a stranger, which Yao had brought into the family of his own accord. Initially, his parents had firmly told Yao ‘no’, treating it as though Yao had brought home a dirty stray and not a human being. But Yao had persisted, snuck Kiku into his room and kept him in secret. When his parents had found out and sent Kiku on his way – back onto the streets and the grimy alleyways – Yao only snuck him back in again. Blood or no blood, Kiku was his brother. It was only a matter of time before Yao’s parents begrudgingly give in.

‘I’ll get it for you, Kiku.’ Yao pat Kiku’s shoulder. ‘There’s nothing your older brother can’t fix!’

‘We’re the same age.’

‘Um. No…’ Yao started to inspect the tree, looking for potential footholds and branches to hold on to. ‘I’m like, two months older than you.’

‘But my birthday comes before yours. February, remember? Yours is in October.’

‘ _Aiyah_ … I know the order of the months, Kiku.’ Yao took hold of the lowest branch, setting his foot onto a small stumped branch and hoisting himself up onto the tree. ‘But your birthday isn’t in February. It’s in December. So – I’m older.’

‘That’s a lie.’

Yao’s foot slipped on the tree bark, struggling to regain his footing. ‘It’s not!’

‘It is. I turned eleven in February. You just turned eleven last week.’

‘Okay, but like, listen.’ Yao pulled himself up to the next branch, feeling the bark scratch at his palms. He could see the ball sitting not too far, close enough to reach. ‘I found you on December 28th, right? So that’s kinda like, that’s the day you became my brother, you know. Which _means-_ ’

Yao reached out to grab the ball, stretching himself out to try and catch it. His fingers just about brushed against it, though not quite close enough. He shifted his grip on the nearby branch, giving himself just that extra leeway he needed to lean in and –

His foot slipped on the branch stump, his hand abruptly pushing the ball off the branches. He gasped and fell to the ground face down, the air knocked out of his lungs. He heard the ball roll across dead leaves, crunching over them slowly.

Yao groaned, tears pricking his eyes as a sharp pain shot through his forearm. He bit his lip, not wanting to cry in front of Kiku. He struggled to get up, every movement sending a new wave of pain from his arm.

‘Are you okay?’

Yao looked up. Kiku was watching him with the red ball in his hands, expression withdrawn and blank as always. His brows, however, were pinched ever so slightly. Yao could see it – he was concerned. It was a subtle expression, most people wouldn’t recognize it. But Yao could. He really could.

‘I’m fine, Kiku.’ Yao croaked out, not sure how much longer he could ignore the pain. He heard the front door of the house open, furious footsteps of his father on the porch. ‘But… Why didn’t you…’

‘Why didn’t I what?’

Yao hesitated, looking at the red ball in Kiku’s hands. ‘N-Never mind.’ He raised his uninjured hand to Kiku, feeling Kiku’s cool palm take hold of it. Kiku pulled him up.

‘You’re uh… You’re staying for dinner, aren’t you?’ Yao asked, spotting his father approaching. In spite of the bruises and scratches burning up raw on his skin, Yao blinked away the tears. Kiku couldn’t see him like that. Neither could his father. He would only blame it on Kiku.

‘I don’t think your parents want me to stay…’

Yao shook his head and smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter. I want you to stay.’

Kiku blinked, though Yao couldn’t tell what he was thinking. A quiet, reserved nod from Kiku. And for a moment – just for a moment - Yao could almost fool himself that there was a smile on Kiku’s lips, too.

* * *

Alfred knocked on the door, stuffing his hand into his coat pocket before the cold could sting it. His fingers met the sharp edge of a photo, tempted to take it out and look at it again as he waited for the door to open. When Kiku had fished it out of Katyusha’s wallet the other day, Alfred had expected to be shown the same face he had seen at ‘The Poisoned Apple’, of Yao Wang’s and his stone black eyes. Instead, he found himself looking at the face of someone entirely different, an almost angelic looking entity.

 _Vanya_ \- was what had been written on the back of that photo, along with the year it was taken. Though he was young in the picture, he would have been around the right age now to fit the description of their second killer. And though there were no records of such a person ever existing, Alfred was sure this was the ‘Ivan’ Natalya had mentioned.

The image of that face disappointed him somehow, as if Alfred had wanted this ‘Ivan’ to at least look the part of the monster. But he didn’t… Alfred supposed that was the way it always was with truly terrible people.

Impatient, he pulled his hand out of his warm pocket to knock again. Upon the first knock, the clunk of the door unlocking startled him. Alfred’s hand retreated, the door opening by only a few inches. Natalya peered out, her brows settling into a frown at the sight of Alfred.

‘What is it?’

‘I called you, didn’t I?’

‘I told you I was busy.’ Natalya went to shut the door. Alfred blocked it with the cane.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘So you can save the lives of those pigs?’ Natalya nearly spat out the last word. ‘Don’t be stupid. Leave.’ She kicked the cane, dislodging it from its place, and shut the door with a slam.

‘Natalya!’ Alfred pushed against the door, though it was too late. He heard the clicks of the door being locked, the chain sliding into place. ‘Natalya, please! People’s lives are at risk-’

_(Arthur’s life is at risk)_

‘They might be horrible people, Natalya, but they have families that would grieve! Children that would grieve! Natalya-’

‘Don’t use my name like that! Don’t ask me to feel sorry for them!’ She hissed from the other side of the door, apparently still listening. It gave Alfred a sliver of hope. He pulled the photo out from his pocket and slid it beneath the door.

‘Help us find him, Natalya.’ Alfred pressed his forehead against the door, waiting for a response. It had gone incredibly quiet, save for the sound of the photo sliding against the floor as Natalya picked it up.

She gasped, her voice becoming soft and trembling. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘Let me in and we can talk.’

He heard the chain rattle, the door promptly unlocking as soon as Alfred had spoken. Alfred withheld a sigh of relief, lifting his head away from the door as it opened. Without saying anything, Natalya turned around and disappeared into the dimly lit hallway, expecting Alfred to follow.

Alfred shut the door behind him, walking into the living room. The room was dark, save for the sparse morning light escaping through dense curtains. Natalya pulled them back, the room flooding with light.

‘Sit.’

Alfred took a seat on the couch, noticing the weathered teddy bear on the other side of it. Having perhaps stared at it for too long, Natalya snatched it from the couch, striding out of the room and returning empty handed.

Alfred made no comment, watching her take a seat where the teddy bear had been. She folded her hands in her lap, the photo cradled in them as she glanced at it. The moment stretched out, her eyes seemingly unable to tear away from the photo.

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ She said, breaking the silence. ‘Ivan’s been killing them.’

Alfred nodded. ‘That’s what we suspect so far. But he’s not alone.’ Natalya snapped her head up at this, an odd ferocity in the gesture.

‘He’s with someone?’

Alfred paused. ‘Don’t worry about that for now. Just tell me about Ivan. How did you meet him?’

Natalya’s frame slackened by the slightest, her gaze not quite as direct. ‘We were at Glen Hills together. At least, for a while we were. He escaped before I could. We were supposed to escape together, you know… But he was more scared than I was, I guess.’

Natalya reached up to scratch her throat, hand pushing back a curtain of ash blonde hair. Alfred caught a glimpse of numbers on her throat, skin tinged red around the faded ink.

_(She’s got a rather lovely neck, don’t you think?)_

Alfred furrowed his brows at the memory - Arthur had known, even then. Yet he had kept it to himself, only leaving Alfred little crumbs to follow. Had Arthur not been missing, Alfred might have felt a pang of annoyance. But he could only worry more. Wherever he was, Arthur was surely toying with his captors, too. Alfred could only hope he hadn’t pushed his limits with them.

‘That mark on your neck…’ Alfred said. Natalya’s hand froze for a second, pulling away hastily.

‘They gave it to us when we arrived at Glen Hills. Ivan had one, too.’ Natalya brushed through her hair, setting it back in place where it covered the markings. ‘22105 was his number… He was always scratching at it, sometimes making it bleed. The nurses never liked that. If they saw there was a new scratch or scab, they’d-’ She paused, pursing her lips as if she had said too much.

‘They’d what?’

Natalya clasped her hands together in her lap, tightening her grip. ‘Ivan was easy to bruise. Even I knew that. I used to hold onto him so tightly he’d get bruises on his arms. The nurses, the doctors, they knew it, too. They liked it when you were easy to hurt.’

She opened up her hands to peer at the photo once again, sighing. ‘He looks a bit older here, but he still looks just as fragile. To think he’s doing all those horrible things…’

The room fell quiet, Natalya’s watery gaze remaining fixed on the photo.

‘Natalya-‘

‘Please don’t call me that anymore.’ She shook her head, hiding the photo away in her palm. ‘Just Linda is fine.’

Alfred furrowed his brows, the woman before him softer, not quite as harsh as before. ‘Linda, I know it might be too much to ask of you right now, but I need you to help me. I need to know who Ivan is going after next.’

Alfred pulled out three photos from his coat pocket, laying them out on the coffee table. Before he could even set out the third one, Natalya shrank back in her seat and shook her head.

‘No. Put those away.’ She croaked. ‘I don’t want to see them.’

‘It’s the only three remaining staff from Glen Hills.’ Alfred left the photos on the table, men’s haggard and withered faces watching the ceiling with an unblinking glare. ‘All doctors.’

‘Yes, I know. I know who they are. Now please-’ She swept the photos up towards Alfred. ‘Just take them away.’

‘Linda, I need your help.’

‘Linda can’t help you.’ She picked the photos up and shoved them into Alfred’s. ‘Neither can Natalya.’

‘I can’t do this without your help. One of these men could be dead by tonight, and I can’t afford to hazard a guess or watch all three of them without having to thin out security.’

‘That’s your problem, then.’ Natalya stood up from the couch, still cradling Ivan’s photo in her hands.

Alfred stood up from the couch, too, the three photos crinkling in his fist. ‘Do you want Ivan to kill again? Is that what you want? For him to get blood on his hands again?’

‘No!’

‘Then help me find him.’

‘I can’t do that either!’ Natalya choked out, her voice crumbling beneath a sob that was waiting to burst out. ‘I can’t! He’s just a child, he’s a hurt child and all you want to do is punish him again for it! You’ll just do what they did at Glen Hills! You’ll take his name away and give him a number, you’ll tell him he’s sick, that he needs help and that you can fix him - but you’ll only just pick him apart. And when you’re done with him, you’ll throw him away. You’ll kill him and send him off so some other man can pick him apart, cut him up until there’s nothing left…’

Her voice had grown withered, too tired to keep itself from falling into a whisper. ‘That’s what you do. But it’s not fair, is it…?’

Alfred took a step forward, watching her flinch away. He opened his mouth to say something, though he didn’t know what, until a child’s voice sounded out softly in the room.

‘Auntie…?’

Both Alfred and Natalya’s gazes snapped toward the voice. At the living room doorway, a young boy stood, his pale blonde hair ruffled and his pyjamas crumpled as if he had just rolled out of bed. In his hands, the teddy bear Alfred had seen on the couch earlier.

Natalya was the first to react. Hastily wiping away her tears, she hurried over to the child. ‘Kevin, it’s still too early. Go back to bed.’ She placed her hand on the child’s shoulder, guiding it towards the hallway.

‘You’re crying.’

Natalya shook her head, bursting into a forced chuckle. ‘No, Kevin. Auntie’s fine…Go back to sleep.’

‘Is it about Da-’

‘Please.’ She said, her voice straining itself once again. ‘Just say in your room until the man leaves.’

The boy glanced at Alfred, his pale blue eyes piercing with curiosity. Alfred darted his gaze away, focusing on the feel of crinkled paper in his had until he could hear the boy’s footsteps patter away. Natalya sighed, returning back to the living room.

‘He’s Mr. Bowman’s son, isn’t he?’ Alfred said.

Natalya stopped in her tracks before she could approach the couch. ‘You can’t tell anyone.’ When Alfred remained silent, she spoke again, her voice shaking. ‘Alfred, you can’t tell anyone! He’ll get taken away from me, they’ll take him away and put him in some cold, horrible place. Alfred-’

‘What about Emily? All the other children the victims left behind?’ Alfred turned to face her. ‘You keep them, too? Or just the ones that look like Ivan?’

Natalya’s hand struck across Alfred’s face, his cheek stinging. ‘I took him in because he had no one left. The others – they had family, places to go. Kevin had no one. I was the only person that could give him a real home, so I did.’ She leaned in closer, hissing. ‘Don’t you ever mistake that for anything else.’

‘It doesn’t matter why you did it.’ Alfred took a step back. ‘The court isn’t going to see that way.’

‘What court?’ Natalya grabbed his arm, nails digging in through the sleeve. ‘What court, Alfred? You’re not telling anyone! You can’t!’

‘I have to.’

‘N-No, you don’t.’ Her grip tightened as Alfred tried to pry her hand off. Her fingers grasped on like claws of a hawk, and it was in trying to undo this desperate grip that Alfred felt a little guilty. He stopped, looking up at Natalya and sighed.

‘You’re right. Maybe I don’t.’ Alfred said, hearing Natalya sigh as she loosened her hold. ‘But you gotta help me out, Linda. I’d be going out on a limb for you here.’

She tensed, her brows pinched in distress. ‘Don’t ask me to give Ivan up. Don’t-’ Her nails bit into Alfred’s arm, holding on even as Alfred flinched. ‘Don’t ask me to save their lives! You can’t just ask me to do that!’

‘Linda.’ Alfred pried her fingers away, having to tear her hand away from him. ‘It’s Ivan or Kevin. I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to choose.’

Natalya’s eyes, once icy and cold in their gaze, burned into Alfred with hatred. She would never forgive Alfred for this, he knew that. But it didn’t matter to him – it was never about winning everyone’s hearts, like the glorified hero he once dreamt to be. No, it had always been about the monster, about the lengths Alfred would take to kill it, even if in the end everyone hated him. Real heroes didn’t exist; only men willing to do terrible things for the sake of another.

* * *

The sun smouldered in the sky, sinking behind the tree lined horizon as Ivan walked down the road. He took a moment to look back at the house, now small and fragile looking in the distance. It was too far away now, much too far away for Ivan to even see the warm light that would be spilling through the boarded up windows, to even catch a glimpse of Yao’s shadow. Even his footprints in the snow, seemed too far away to see, the trail disappearing beneath the falling snow.

_(We’re practically ghosts…)_

Ivan smiled faintly. It had only been a few months since Yao had said this, and yet it seemed like an eternity ago. He had said it so confidently, so calmly, as if it were the best thing to be in that moment. Ivan could only dream they would remain this way – invisible.

He turned back to face the road, furrowing his brows when met with an empty road. Katyusha should have been here by now, though Ivan knew she was not always on time. Worry planted itself in Ivan’s chest, his feet leaving scraped trails across the icy asphalt. He preoccupied himself with the thought of Yao, the stubborn way in which he had watched Ivan leave.

‘Don’t leave me here with this idiot for too long.’ Yao had said, brows knit together as Ivan stepped out into the snow. ‘…Are you sure you don’t want me with you?’

Ivan had to lie, to tell Yao that he really was fine doing this alone. Truth was, he wasn’t. The thought of killing three men on his own, going back to that solitude which had become so foreign to Ivan in the past few months, sent his stomach into an uneasy, twisted mess.

 _I want you with me_ – but those were words Ivan had to keep to himself. These killings were his to carry out, not Yao’s. He didn’t want any more blood on Yao’s face, on his hands which were so quick to reach for Ivan’s. Today would be the last of the killings, and Ivan would make sure of that.

The minutes passed by painstakingly slow as Ivan waited for Katyusha’s car to show up, growing more and more restless as the road only stared back at him in empty silence. The sun was gone now, swallowed up by the snowy treetops and leaving the sky bleeding red. He stole another glance back at the house, checking as if it too, might have been swallowed up by the sky somehow.

The sound of an engine sent his gaze snapping back towards the road. In the distance, a car – but it wasn’t Katyusha’s. Ivan took a hesitant step back, struggling to see the driver through the heavy snowfall. Whoever it was, they weren’t out here in the middle of nowhere by chance. This, Ivan was sure of, even as the black car swerved in uncertainty before pulling up beside Ivan.

The window rolled down, merely a sliver at first. Then an inch, two inches, as if the driver wasn’t sure if he wanted to be doing this. A young man peered out, green eyes flickering with uncertainty as they studied Ivan.

‘I-Ivan Braginsky…?’

Ivan took a step closer to the car, the man flinching in response. There is no way this man is a police officer, Ivan thought. But even so, he eyed the car and its driver carefully.

‘…Yes?’

A quick sigh burst out of the man, his head nodding. ‘Okay, good. It’s you. Please uh… Please get in the car.’

Ivan furrowed his brows at the request. The man flinched again, a nervous smile on his lips.

‘S-Sorry, I forgot to say – I’m Toris. Katyusha sent me. She uh… said you needed to be picked up…?’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s not uh…’ Toris scratched the back of his neck. ‘She’s not feeling well.’

‘She hasn’t called me.’

‘Th-That’s because she couldn’t! I told you – she’s ill.’

‘But she called you?’

Toris’s eyes widened, taking a nervous swallow. Ivan took another step closer to the car, leaning into the window.

‘Who are you again?’

‘T-Toris! Toris Laurinaitis. I work for Katyusha. I’m… I’m her receptionist.’

Ivan furrowed his brows. Toris was shaking, eyes flitting nervously as if they could never rest. ‘Has she told you what I do?’

‘Uh. Not really. Just that – you know. You need to go places.’

Ivan eyed the car. It was much too small to fit three bodies in the boot. Unless Toris was comfortable driving with three corpses in the backseat, Ivan would have to improvise body disposal on his own. He might just have to burn them at the locations. He hummed in thought, glancing back at Toris.

‘ _Da_. That’s exactly what I do, Toris.’ Ivan took hold of the window frame, offering a polite smile. ‘I go places. But there is one thing I need to make sure of…’

‘W-What is that, exactly?’

‘Your silence.’

A yelp escaped Toris’ lips. ‘K-Katyusha didn’t mention anything like that!’

‘If you are telling truth, it’s because she trusts you. But I don’t, so I need to make a couple of things clear, _da_?’

Toris swallowed and nodded.

‘I tell you where to take me, and you get me there. You don’t know my name, you don’t know where I live. I’m a stranger who needed to get somewhere and you were kind enough to help. You don’t remember my face, you don’t know why I needed to go to these places. And when you wait inside the car for me to come back, you are asleep. You don’t see or know anything of what I do inside the house. Is that clear to you?’

‘Y-Yes.’ Toris croaked out.

‘Good. Let me into the car now. It’s very cold out here, _da_?’ Ivan chuckled, watching the colour drain from Toris’ face. Toris nodded and unlocked the car doors. Ivan got into the passenger seat, stuffing his large black bag into the back seat. Toris glanced at it curiously. His mouth opened to ask a question, only for him to sigh instead. He started up the car engine.

‘How much is she paying you for this?’ Ivan asked.

‘Ah, n-nothing! Nothing.’ Toris rolled the window up, pre-occupying himself with adjusting a rear-view mirror that needed no adjusting. ‘This is just... part of my job, I guess. Not that… picking up creepy strangers is a part of my normal work day.’

Ivan glanced at Toris.

Toris swallowed down a cry. ‘Forget what I said.’

‘ _Da_ , that would be best for both of us.’

‘R-Right.’

Toris started the car up, making a clumsy u-turn on the icy road. Ivan took a last glance at the house, a part of him wishing he had simply stayed with Yao instead. But he would be back soon, anyway. He wouldn’t be long, and when he returned, it would be without the burden of Glen Hills on his back.

* * *

Cool night breeze teased through the open car window, sending a shiver down the nape of Alfred’s neck. He rolled the window up by the slightest, and for a moment he considered having a smoke to ease his jittery nerves. But with Kiku on the phone, he curbed the temptation.

‘Which one are you monitoring?’ Kiku asked over the phone.

‘Evans. One of the Glen Hills committee members.’ Alfred said. He watched the trees sway from the wind, looming over the entrance to a large but humble-looking house. There were no gates, no guard-dogs or security. A nicely paved path led right up to the front door – an open invitation. Alfred was essentially offering this man on a silver platter, waiting for the killer to take the opportunity. He hadn’t even told the man he was being targeted, something he could never get away with had Kiku – or anyone else, for that matter - been here with him.

It was a risk many ways, not just for the man’s life but for the investigation altogether. Alfred knew that. But it was his beast to catch, wasn’t it? Whatever he had to do, he would do it.

‘Did Ms. Sterling point you towards Evans?’ Kiku asked.

‘Yeah, sorta.’ Alfred said, taking a glance at a balcony window from which warm light was escaping through. ‘From what she told me, the Glen Hills director is probably the one being ‘saved for last’. He was the brains behind the entire child ‘treatment’ program, and somehow got away with it even after the scandal broke out. That leaves two other potential victims, both on the Glen Hills committee. Evans and Bohren.’

‘And you’re assuming Evans is next on the killers list?’

‘A guess is the best I can do right now.’

‘I see.’ Kiku sighed, the sound of paper being flicked through on his side of the phone. ‘Who is at Bohren’s then?’

‘Carriedo and Vargas.’

A pause. ‘Oh.’

‘Hey. Nobody else was available tonight, okay? If I could make doubles of myself or you, I would.’

‘And who do you have with you?

‘Uh… No one.’

Kiku stayed silent.

‘Look, I didn’t have time to grab someone from the station, okay? Vargas and Carriedo were the only guys who didn’t have patrols or shifts, but I needed them to keep an eye on the Bohren residence. Nobody else left, so… It’s just me.’

‘You could have taken me with you.’

‘You were busy.’ Alfred said. It wasn’t quite a lie, but it felt dirty on his tongue. He should have brought Kiku with him. But if he did, Alfred doubted he would be allowed to leave the place so open and unguarded.

‘Are you sure you won’t need backup?’

‘Hey, if I need backup I’ll call backup, alright?’

‘But you’re confident you can take down the killer on your own?’ The question didn’t come across as doubtful or sarcastic. It was concerned, as Kiku often was. Alfred smiled a little at the sentiment.

‘I call you as soon as I get him, Kiku. You’ll be the first to know.’

Kiku hummed, more so in polite acknowledgment than anything else. Alfred glanced over the house, checking in again on the window with the balcony. It was still lit, somehow reassurance for Alfred that the killer had not struck without his notice. He turned to check on the road, sighing.

‘Whatcha working on anyway?’ Alfred asked.

‘I’m actually on my way somewhere… An old family home of Katyusha’s.’

The breeze outside started to pick up, startling a pile of papers on Alfred’s dashboard. It blew some of them away, sending them spilling onto the passenger’s seat. Alfred muttered a curse and started collecting them up, spotting a small piece of paper on the floor. He bent down to reach for it. When he sat up, he saw the scrawled ‘Vanya’ on it, the photo of a younger Ivan on the other side of it. The sight still startled him, unable to match the face to the bloodied corpses it had left behind.

‘Alfred?’

‘Sorry, I just…’ Alfred sets the photo back onto the dashboard. ‘I … dropped something...’

Looking back up at the house, something looked off. Alfred frowned, realising the light from the balcony had become much dimmer, and the window was wide open. It wasn’t an incredibly suspicious phenomenon, but something in Alfred’s gut twisted uneasily at the sight of it.

‘…Kiku, I need to hang up.’

‘Oh-’

Alfred closed the phone, stepping out of the car and feeling the icy wind bite his skin. A shadow moved beyond the balcony window frame, and without further thought, Alfred bolted towards the house. His breaths started to heave by the time he kicked the door down, heart pounding as he pulled his gun out and made his way upstairs.

He slammed his back against a wall. His heart felt as though it was pounding against his ribcage, ready to burst out at any moment. He tried to still his breaths, his heart, as he listened to the gentle creaks of the door opening and closing slightly. He took a deep breath and burst into the room.

‘Police! Don’t move!’ Alfred’s gun automatically aimed at the looming shadow in the centre of the room, wavering though he tried to keep it steady. Something dripped, making a soft splattering noise as the figure lifted what looked like a pipe.

‘I said don’t move!’ Alfred said, hands going clammy on the gun. ‘Or I shoot!’

The air was rank with the scent of blood, carried by the night breeze. Alfred could vaguely make out the killer’s outline, framed by the gentle light of dying embers in the fireplace. He was tall, wearing something of a large coat, from what Alfred could gather. But he couldn’t see his face, couldn’t tell if it was still that same innocent expression, or if it had twisted and grown into something sinister over the years.

Alfred stepped forward, carefully. ‘Put the weapon down.’

He heard the killer’s breaths, slightly laboured and heavy. The friction of gloves against the metal pipe, which was still held up so that Alfred could hear blood dripping from it. And then, a chuckle.

‘You were waiting for me to kill him, weren’t you?’ The voice drawled out softly, chillingly sweet amidst the words that were being spoken. Alfred inhaled a shaky breath, spotting the open balcony window and its wildly swaying curtains. Snow was drifting in, melting on Alfred’s skin.

‘Drop the weapon.’

‘You didn’t protect this man at all…’ A pause, as if considering something. ‘Did you know him?’

‘Not really.’ Alfred took another step, smaller this time. ‘But I know you, in a way. You’re Ivan, aren’t you?’

‘You say my name funny.’

‘Yeah. Probably.’ Alfred readjusted his grip on the gun. ‘But you know what, Ivan? I’m taking you down to the police station today. Whether or not you get there in one piece is up to you. So do yourself a favour and drop that pipe, will you?’

Ivan hummed, the pipe twitching in his hold. The wind outside picked up, roaring and sending the house groaning as if it were in pain. The curtains were yanked in towards the room, flailing uneasily as Ivan started to set the weapon down. His face crossed into the moonlight, pale features partially illuminated so that they seemed incomplete, half shrouded in darkness.

The pipe clanged against the floor. Alfred stepped closer.

‘Good. Now get on the ground and raise your hands up.’

Ivan kneeled to the floor, seemingly not caring that he was amidst the crumbled remains of Evans’ head. He raised his gloved hands into the air, and looked at Alfred in question. Keeping his gun aimed at Ivan, Alfred approached. His footsteps creaked on the wooden floor, the door behind him groaning as the air pulled and pushed at it gently. His gun close to Ivan’s forehead, Alfred thought how easy it would be to break this moment, to pull the trigger whilst he still had the chance.

‘You took someone I knew.’ Alfred said, swallowing down a nervous lump in his throat.

Ivan’s eyes flickered up to Alfred, cold and numb in their gaze. ‘Did I…?’

‘Yeah. Arthur Kirkland. Does the name ring a bell?’ Alfred nudged Ivan’s forehead with his gun. ‘Or did you not even bother to catch his name before you killed him?’

‘Arthur… I did catch his name.’

 _Did you kill him, too?_ The question was burning in Alfred’s throat, but he was too afraid of the answer he might get, the anger that might make him squeeze the trigger. Alfred loosened his grip on the gun, palms growing sweaty. ‘Where is he?’

Ivan blinked, eyes brightening with faint amusement. ‘My friend is taking care of him...’

The entire house seemed to be groaning, as if it were an old ship at sea. Papers from a desk were violently thrown off by the wind, doors swinging back and forth and setting Alfred on edge. It was with a sudden pang of dread that Alfred realised they might not be alone in the house. There was another killer, another beast Alfred had forgotten about, that may very well be waiting for the right moment to strike.

‘And… And where’s your friend?’ Alfred asked, his muscles tense with unease.

A small smile etched across Ivan’s lips. ‘Behind you.’

The door slammed behind Alfred. He spun around and fired his gun, blindly following his own relfexes. Before he could even blink, something metallic crashed into his head. His vision spun, sickeningly dizzy as he felt his body hit the ground. He groaned, a throbbing pain in his temple as he rolled over to his stomach to get up. He raised his gun towards the balcony window, seeing double of Ivan’s shadow climbing out of it.

‘Stop…’

A shot rang out, but it missed and hit the open balcony door instead. Glass shattered and rained down onto the floor, smaller pieces swept up by the storm-like winds. Alfred crawled up towards the window, through the blood of Evans and through the broken glass. He stood up and aimed his gun outside, down to where Ivan must have landed, in a patch of shrubs and bushes.

But there was no one there.

Alfred heard a car drive away, tyres screeching against asphalt in the distance. He seethed a curse through his teeth, fighting the urge to puke when he found blood dripping down from his temple.

‘Fuck.’

He shakily grabbed his phone, began to dial up a number and pressed the phone to his aching head. Rings played out, taking their time, so leisurely it boiled the blood in Alfred’s veins.

He had him. _He had him_.

Another ring played out. Alfred kicked at the broken glass. _Fuck_.

* * *

Snow was swirling in ferocious winds, screeching and hissing against the glass of the window. Between the wooden boards blocking the window, Yao could see the darkness of the sky outside. It was late, though not late enough to warrant Yao’s expectation that Ivan should be back soon. Even so, his chest tightened both in anxiety and anticipation. He thought of Ivan’s quiet smile this morning, words that were meant to comfort Yao, somehow.

_(We’ll celebrate when I get back, da?)_

Even his kiss, given hastily and sweetly, felt like a sugar-coated pill. Yao had been the first to pull back – he didn’t like the way Ivan was holding him, the closeness of it all, as if it were fleeting and precious. It wasn’t. It shouldn’t be. Yao wanted that kiss to be treated like there would be a thousand more to follow, wanted it to be taken for granted like every breath they took. Because there would be more of it. Surely, there would be more of it.

Yao yanked open the kitchen drawer, picking out masking tape and rope. They were running out of the stuff, though Yao imagined they wouldn’t be needing it after today. He made his way down to the basement, opening the door without the courtesy of a knock.

‘Get up.’ Yao walked into the basement room, grabbing a sleepy Arthur by the arm. He pulled him up, Arthur groaning in protest.

‘What…? Oh.’ Arthur blinked tiredly, stumbling in his balance. He focused his tired gaze on Yao, a lazy smile stretching across his lips. ‘Morning, Yao.’

‘ _Aiyah_. Don’t smile like that. Just behave and come with me.’ Yao dragged Arthur out of the basement, ignoring his complaints that this was hurting his shoulder wound. Reaching the foot of the stairs, Arthur halted, nearly knocking Yao back.

‘Is this… really it?’

Yao turned around, sighing. ‘Is it really what?’

‘Can I at least know beforehand how you’re going to kill me?’ Arthur’s brows were furrowed, the smile dissolved from his lips. ‘I mean, I’m assuming if you’re the executioner then it’s probably going to involve asphyxiation-’

‘I’m not going to kill you!’

Arthur’s eyes widened, green irises softer somehow. ‘You’re not?’

‘What the hell is wrong with you? No, I’m not! Just – come with me.’ Yao yanked at Arthur’s arm, pulling him along to go upstairs.

‘You’re going to torture me, then?’

Yao growled in annoyance. He wouldn’t answer this time. Let the man think he’s going to die some gruesome death, or lose all his fingernails, or whatever horrible thing Yao could have easily done if Ivan would let him.

Having guided Arthur to the entrance hallway, Yao motioned towards the floor. ‘Sit.’

‘Really, Yao, you’ve got me stumped on what you’re trying to do here.’

‘Sit.’ Yao seethed. Arthur obeyed with a curious look. Sat criss-cross on the floor, Arthur looked up at Yao.

‘I think I’ve got a good guess, actually. You want to talk again, don’t you?’ Arthur’s lips were tugged into a smile, though his eyes still held uncertainty in them.

Yao scoffed. ‘No.’ He knelt down, setting down the masking tape aside and holding up the rope. ‘Turn around.’

‘…You’re not tying me up, are you?’

‘What does it look like I’m trying to do?’

Arthur seemed to think for a moment, gaze flickering between the rope and Yao. The corners of his lips quirk.

‘Well-’

‘ _No_.’ Yao snapped. ‘Enough with that! Enough with _you_! Just turn around and give me your hands.’

Arthur sighed, turning around and offering his hands to Yao behind his back. Yao scoffed and tied them up. He picked up the masking tape, tearing off a piece. He went to place it over Arthur’s mouth, only for Arthur to tilt his head away.

‘Darling, I can behave without a gag, thank you.’ Arthur said, evading the masking tape.

‘We both know that’s a lie.’ Yao grabbed the side of Arthur’s head, almost wrestling with it. ‘Now sit still-’

‘What’s this all for, anyway? Are you and Ivan moving me elsewhere?’ Arthur slipped out of Yao’s grip, a chuckle bursting out of him. ‘Am I really too much for the two of you?’

Yao grabbed the back of his collar. ‘As a matter of fact – Yes, you are. _I_ wanted to dump you in the acid bath. But that’s not what we’re doing today. So consider yourself lucky that you only have to stay quiet for a few hours.’ Yao managed to grapple Arthur’s head, arm locked around his throat.

Arthur winced, bruises on his throat being pressed on. ‘You’re not going to tell me where I’m going-’

Yao slapped the masking tape over his mouth, breathing out in relief when Arthur’s voice had been reduced to a muffle. He let go of Arthur, setting him to sit against the wall. Yao sat opposite of him in the hallway, resting his head back on the wall and ignoring Arthur’s fidgeting.

 _He’s like an annoying child_ , Yao thought. Way too much talking and way too many questions. Yao couldn’t wait until he and Ivan could leave him on the side of a road, somewhere far out and away from them. Not too far out, though, as Ivan had insisted. Close enough to civilisation for someone to pick him up at some point, perhaps. Close enough for the idiot to find his way home.

Yao drew out a long exhale, shutting his eyes and wanting to sleep until Ivan came back. It was stupid, dangerous, to free someone who had seen their faces. But perhaps they would be gone before Arthur would even make it home – Ivan hadn’t specified. A knowing smile was all Yao got when he had asked.

Yao felt Arthur kick his foot. He opened his eyes and looked at him in question. Arthur said something through the masking tape.

‘I can’t understand you...’ Yao said half-heartedly.

Arthur exhaled sharply – perhaps what was meant to be a laugh. Or perhaps a cry, Yao couldn’t tell. Arthur’s eyes seemed glassy, changed somehow. Arthur nodded his head up toward the ceiling. Yao took a weary glance up. Nothing. Just the old, mottled wall of a house that should have been taken down years ago.

‘What?’

Arthur nodded up again at the ceiling, voice muffled as he spoke again.

Yao sighed, getting up. ‘If this is another one of your games…’

Arthur shook his head vigorously, still bothering to try and speak through the tape. Yao ripped the tape off.

‘What is it?’

Arthur nodded toward the ceiling. ‘Faces. You can see faces, can’t you?’

Yao blinked. He went to replace the tape over Arthur’s mouth.

‘No, no, no, no! Wait! Just- Just have a look.’

Yao glanced up. ‘Nope. No faces.’

‘Not even Ivan’s?’

‘Is that what you’re seeing?’

Arthur chuckled. ‘No, no… Someone else’s. I… I was wondering…’

‘Wondering what?’

Arthur hesitated, for once not eager to spout out his thoughts. Yao wondered what could have done this, what little wound was being pressed with Yao’s prying.

‘You’re not a murderer, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ Yao said. ‘Cutting a dead guy’s tongue doesn’t count.’

Arthur burst into laughter, the sound mechanical and forced to Yao’s ears. ‘So I’m not part of the club, then? What a shame…’ He shifted in his seat, not quite meeting Yao’s eyes. ‘But uh… That wasn’t quite what I was worried about.’

‘What were you worried about?’

A small smile crept on Arthur’s lips. ‘It’s a silly thing. Are you sure you want to know? It might make it harder for you to kill me, you know.’

‘ _Aiyah_ … I told you I’m not killing you! Stop reminding me of that.’

‘Alright then. You want to know?’

‘Just spit it out already.’

‘I was wondering if I’ll be missed.’

Yao wanted to put the tape back on in that moment, regretting he had even asked. He didn’t want any more of that pitiful look, any more of those softly spoken words. Somehow, it reminded him of something. Whatever it was, it only stirred the anxiety in his stomach, the uncertainty of whether Ivan was going to come back in one piece.

But instead, Yao tore the rest of the tape away, seating himself back on the opposite wall. It didn’t feel right to shut him up then. Sharp green irises had grown softer and more hazel like, gentler like Ivan’s when he had spoken of the scar on his throat.

Yao drew out a tired sigh. ‘So whose face were you seeing then? Wouldn’t they miss you?’

Arthur blinked, as if not expecting Yao to take interest. ‘Perhaps. Though, I suppose he would be looking for me whether he wants me back or not.’

‘He?’

Arthur’s lips broke into a smile. ‘You’re one to judge, Yao.’

‘I wasn’t-’ Yao pursed his lips, feeling his cheeks grow hot. ‘It was just a question.’

‘I know.’

Yao rolled his eyes. ‘Well then? Who was he?’

‘Someone I used to like to bother.’ Arthur’s eyes drifted off to stare at the floor, the smile softening on his lips. ‘I think he liked being bothered. He must have liked it, to keep putting up with me…’

‘Maybe he was just stuck with you.’

Arthur chuckled, the sound soft and lonely enough to make Yao feel a sting of guilt. ‘Maybe… That sounds about right, actually…’

Yao furrowed his brows. ‘Hey-’

Something softly fell to the ground outside. Yao froze.

‘What is it?’ Arthur asked. Yao waved a hand to shush him, listening closely. Silence.

‘That could be the blizzard outside, Yao…’

‘Will you keep quiet?’ Yao hissed, trying to listen for more of what could have been footsteps. But then again, it could have been an animal, or the wind. Whatever it was, it was no longer making noise. Yao turned away from the door, only then just noticing the thumping of his heart. What time was it anyway? Surely by now, Ivan would be back.

‘So this is what worried looks like on you…’

Yao snapped his gaze back to Arthur. The softness in Arthur’s expression was gone, replaced by the wolfish smile that suddenly looked so fake to him.

There was a loud bang, sending Yao nearly jumping in his seat. He got up, thinking that the sound must have come from the back of the house.

‘Did you leave a door open?’ Arthur asked. Yao darted a glance at him and shook his head. His hands, now trembling slightly at the sudden uncertainty, balled into fists.

Footsteps, quiet. Yao swallowed. He didn’t have a weapon on him, was too far away from the kitchen to grab a knife. He yanked Arthur up by the collar, arm locked around Arthur’s throat.

‘Make a noise and I’ll snap your neck.’ Yao hissed, hoping Arthur couldn’t hear how unsteady Yao’s breath was. He walked down the hallway with him, hearing the footsteps of the intruder grow closer.

‘Who’s there?’ Yao asked.

A man stepped into the hallway, gun shakily aimed at Yao. Yao felt the blood drain from his face at the sight, his grip on Arthur tightening. A knot grew in his throat as he tried to speak.

‘Kiku-’

‘P-Please step away from Dr. Kirkland.’ Kiku said, dark eyes watching him just as they did then, when they were only clueless children. Watching Yao as if there were a vast, empty distance in front of him instead. The expression was familiar and unsettling, comforting and terrifying all at once as Yao took a tiny step back.

‘W-What are you doing here?’ Yao said, swallowing down the lump in his throat. ‘How did you-’

‘You’re under arrest for first degree murder, and the kidnapping of Dr. Arthur Kirkland. Let Dr. Kirkland go and put your hands in the air.’

Yao felt his legs grow weak, the sight of a gun in Kiku’s hands making him feel sick. Again, it was happening again. Only with a gun instead of a knife. A police badge, instead of hatred. He shook his head, wanting to be able to spit out this horrid knot in his throat. ‘N-No! No…’

‘P-Please-’ Kiku swallowed, adjusting his aim. ‘Put your hands in the air and face the wall! Now!’

Kiku took a step forward. Yao took one backwards, closing his grip further around Arthur’s throat and earning a hoarse choke.

‘Stay away from me.’

‘Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.’

‘Then leave.’

Kiku cocked the gun, the sound sending a prickly chill across Yao’s back.

‘You wouldn’t…’ Yao croaked out.

Kiku said nothing, brows pinched in concentration. Yao exhaled sharply, his grip weakening. He let go of Arthur and shoved him away. He raised his hands up, only to realise that Ivan might have already been caught, already held at gunpoint and thrown into a cage. The thought wrapped itself around Yao’s lungs, squeezing.

‘Face the wall and put your hands behind your back.’

Yao obeyed the instruction, turning to the wall and offering Kiku his trembling hands behind his back. He felt a cold handcuff clasp onto one wrist, tightly winding around it until it was biting into him. The same happened to his other wrist, tight enough to bruise. Yao pressed his forehead to the wall, hearing his own breaths quicken as Kiku spoke.

‘You have the right to remain silent…’

‘Don’t bother, Kiku.’ Arthur said. ‘You’ll get your chance when we’ve got the two of them together-’

Yao rammed Kiku back into the opposite wall, hearing his gasp. The gun went off, the bang echoing and ringing in his ears. Yao heard Arthur cry out, but didn’t take a moment to check. He head-butted Kiku, pain bursting from his head as lights exploded like stars in his eyes. Kiku fell to the floor, the gun beside him.

Yao’s breath burst out in relief, stumbling back against the opposite wall and sliding down to the floor. Arthur was lying on the floor, too, blood pooling from his leg.

‘Bugger…’ Arthur hissed, curling up and trembling.

‘Can you…’ Yao panted. ‘Can you get your hands free?’

‘I can try and wriggle them out.’ Arthur winced, arms shifting and turning behind his back. ‘Perhaps if you hadn’t made it so bloody tight-’

‘Just hurry up!’ Yao said.

‘I’m bleeding to death, Yao. My best is my only option. Now-’ Arthur grit his teeth, an elbow jutting out as the rope loosened. ‘Almost there…’

Arthur yanked his arm out, sighing and resting his head to the floor. ‘Done…’

‘Good. Now get the keys.’

Arthur glanced up in question.

‘The handcuff keys. Get them.’ Yao nodded toward Kiku.

Arthur’s expression softened. ‘Now why would I do that?’

‘Because!’ Yao seethed, realising just how futile this all was. ‘Because…’

A phone began to ring, the sound muffled. Arthur’s eyes darted toward Kiku, then back to Yao.

‘Arthur-’

Arthur propped himself up, dragging his injured foot as he crawled toward Kiku. Yao drew his hand-cuffed hands towards his feet, having to curl up to pull the handcuffs to the front. The handcuff chain snagged onto his heels, Arthur reaching into Kiku’s pocket to pull out a phone. Panic ran cold in Yao’s veins, hands shaking uncontrollably as he dragged the chain over his heels and towards his front. He lunged forward, grabbing the gun from the floor.

‘Keep still or I’ll shoot!’ Yao said, the gun unsteady in its aim as he got up. It felt heavy, cold and terrifying in his hands. Arthur only smiled, a pained chuckle escaping his lips.

‘Will you really?’ The phone dangled teasingly in Arthur’s hands, still ringing like a beacon calling. ‘I’m sorry, Yao. But it’s over.’

‘No.’ Yao shook his head, kneeling down and pressing the gun tip to Arthur’s chest. ‘It’s not. Answer that phone, and it’s you it’s over for.’

Arthur studied Yao for a second, the gaze flickering and curious. Like a flame, the expression extinguished, leaving behind a pitiful look. ‘Sorry, love.’

Arthur answered the phone, pressing it to his ear. Yao cocked the gun, a final warning – because surely, Arthur wouldn’t let him do this, wouldn’t let Yao kill him so easily. It was a stupid way to die, a pathetic way to die. _Don’t be an idiot_ –

‘Alfred, dear…’

Yao pulled the trigger, shutting his eyes for the blood that would splatter onto his face.

Nothing.

Yao opened his eyes, still staring at widened green eyes. The gun was empty.

Yao kicked the phone out of Arthur’s hands, slamming the back of the gun into Arthur’s head. Arthur fell back to the ground with a thump. A voice called out from the phone, tiny and grainy in the near quiet hallway.

Swallowing back down a cry in his throat, Yao let the gun slip through his fingers. He picked up the phone and closed it, wanting to crush it in his grip. It was gone now, whatever little chance, whatever little sliver of hope that he and Ivan could live without nightmares and corpses. And for all Yao knew, Ivan was gone, too.

Yao threw the phone against the wall, sinking to the floor as his legs grew weak and unsteady. He stared at the handcuffs on his wrists, trying to imagine a life in them. Trying to imagine Ivan’s wrists in them.

Yao stifled his cry, blinking back tears. He couldn’t let it happen. It wasn’t going to happen - it was this that Yao repeated to himself as he got up, as he took the keys from Kiku’s pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. He began to drag Kiku and Arthur’s bodies into the basement, watching a trail of blood smear onto the floor.

And for a moment, Yao could almost see Ivan’s face in it.


	21. Curtain Calls Your Name

The road was pitch black where the car headlights couldn’t reach, leaving Ivan’s stomach churning as he stared out the window in nervous anticipation. Afraid, perhaps, that they would reach the house and somehow find nothing there instead.

They passed by a parked car on the side of the road, Toris’ hands starting to tremble on the steering wheel.

‘Was that a police car? I think that was a police car.’ Toris whined, looking to Ivan. Without a further moment the colour drained from Toris’ face, and he promptly returned to facing the road. ‘And you’re still… covered in blood…’

‘Are you feeling sick again?’ Ivan asked, trying to mask the irritation in his voice. They weren’t going fast enough. Though Ivan knew Toris was driving as fast as he could, it still wasn’t enough. Ivan needed to get home _now_ , to see Yao _now_ , and know he was okay. The police car, the intervention during his second killing, Katyusha not showing up - none of this was going as planned. Something told Ivan this could be the case with Yao as well.

‘A little, but I can… still drive…’ Toris’ voice trailed off into a half-hearted whisper. Ivan didn’t respond, was too lost in the pitch black night outside, impatient to get out of the car. Now on a dirt road, the car began to slow down, headlights flashing over the house. Ivan opened the door before Toris could even slow the car to a halt, hopping out onto the snow. Toris yelped.

‘T-That wasn’t safe!’ The car braked suddenly, nearly knocking Toris into the steering wheel.

‘Stay out here.’ Ivan said. ‘Keep the engine running.’

Toris’ eyes widened, mouth twitching to protest.

‘Is there something you want to say?’ Ivan asked, not restraining the growl in his voice. Toris only shook his head vigorously. Whether he liked it or not, Toris was involved in this. The blood all over his car seat was the least of Toris’ problems.

Assured that the car would still be here when Ivan came back, he slammed the car door shut. He hurried to the front door, unlocking it with shivering hands. Ice cold air rushed into the front door hallway as Ivan entered, flecks of snow melting onto the blood smeared floor. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air, sending Ivan’s heart lurching in his chest.

A pair of arms wrapped around his side, nearly knocking Ivan off his balance. He turned, finding Yao’s face buried into his coat. A cry of relief escaped Yao’s lips, muffled and quiet. Ivan’s chest ached at the sound, all the more worried because he couldn’t quite say for sure if the blood trail was Yao’s or not.

‘Yao-’ Ivan freed his arm from Yao’s hold, pulling him back slightly. Yao’s hands were bloodied and shaky, though to Ivan’s relief he didn’t seem injured. ‘ _Chto ne tak_? Are you okay?’

Yao nodded, eyes lingering over the bloodstains on Ivan’s coat and scarf. ‘Ivan…’

‘It’s not mine, _myshka_. Don’t worry about it.’ Ivan said. He looked over at the trail of blood, the gun and the smashed up phone. ‘What happened here? Where’s Arthur?’

Yao shook his head, as if trying to reject the memory. ‘Let’s just-’ Yao hesitated, his grasp on Ivan’s coat tightening. ‘Can we just leave? Please?’

Ivan nodded, lips lingering on Yao’s forehead before pressing a chaste kiss. He grabbed a parka off the coat rack and draped it over Yao’s shoulders, taking hold of Yao’s arm as they stepped outside into the snow.

The car was still waiting outside, windshield wipers beating against the snow that was now falling thickly from the sky. Ivan opened the car door, climbing in after Yao into the back seat.

‘Drive.’ Ivan said to Toris. Toris eyed Yao for a quick moment in the rear view mirror, spotting the bloody hands and promptly starting to drive. The car reversed out into the icy road, setting off hastily.

‘Where’s Katyusha?’ Yao asked.

‘She couldn’t make it today.’ Ivan said. Yao glanced at him in question. ‘Don’t worry, _myshka_. We can trust him.’ Ivan caught Toris’ gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘Isn’t that right, Toris?’

‘Y-Yes.’ Toris said, eyes flickering back to the road. ‘But, where uh… Where do you want me to go, exactly?’

‘That last one we didn’t make it to.’ Ivan said, leaning forward towards the driver’s seat and lowering his voice. ‘Do you still have the address-’

‘Y-Yes. Yes, I have it.’ Toris pressed the screen of his GPS, pushing buttons too fast for the device to keep up. ‘I-I got it.’

‘Good. Get us there. And mind any police cars this time around, _da_?’

Toris swallowed nervously. ‘Y-Yeah.’

Ivan leant back in his seat, Yao looking at him in curiosity.

‘What was that all about? Where are we going?’

Ivan blinked, an answer not springing to his lips easily. What should he tell him? That he was still going to try and finish off the last killing? That he was going to do all this with the police on his back? Yao seemed to understand this without Ivan even saying a word, his dark eyes widening in horror.

‘Ivan, you’re being foolish!’ Anger flashed in Yao’s eyes. ‘It’s too late now! Going after someone now –’

‘It’ll be fine.’ Ivan took hold of Yao’s arm, somehow thinking the gesture might calm him. It didn’t.

‘No, it’s not going to be fine! You’re going to get us caught!’ Yao pulled his arm away. ‘Do you know what they do to people like us, Ivan?’

‘Yao, please-’

‘They’ll execute us, Ivan! Lock us up for life if they’re merciful!’

‘I’m not going to let that happen.’

‘Then don’t do this.’ Yao’s voice started to tremble, softer as his bloody hands gripped the edge of Ivan’s scarf, perhaps unknowingly. ‘You don’t have to kill him.’

‘You know that’s not true.’ Ivan said, taking Yao’s cold hands into his. ‘You know that better than anyone else…’

Sirens begin to sound out in the distance. But even so, Ivan couldn’t let that one man escape him. He wouldn’t allow it – not after all the blood he and Yao had shed up to this point. Not after all the nightmares and bloodstained hands.

Toris whined and glanced back at Ivan, perhaps hoping for a way out of this. Ivan only kept his eyes on Yao, watching dark orbs soften and flicker towards the bloody state of Ivan’s scarf.

‘Ivan…’

‘It’ll be fine, _myshka_.’ Ivan pulled Yao close and rested his chin atop Yao’s head. ‘It’ll be over before you know it.’

* * *

_Kiku…_

The voice was familiar, soft and lilting in a way Kiku hadn’t heard in a long time. He felt a reluctant warmth at the sound of it – it reminded him of home.

It was dark, here… wherever ‘here’ was. But Kiku could feel the sun on his face, could feel the shoulder of someone else pressing next to his.

_Kiku-_

Harsher, more desperate. Kiku wanted to move, to get away, but was paralysed in what felt like black, viscous water. The gentle touch by his side had grown into a clingy hold, sticking to him and holding him in this place. Kiku furrowed his brows, head aching as if it had been hollowed out. He didn’t want to be here anymore, no…

_You used to be so sweet…_

A warm droplet landed on Kiku’s forehead, feeling as though it had pierced him. It trickled down his skin as another fell, and another, until they felt like fake tears on his cheeks. And for a moment, Kiku was scared they wouldn’t be so fake anymore, that his own tears might bleed out into them. He did what he had to, after all, when he had left what used to be ‘home’. It didn’t have to end the way it did. No one had to get hurt, Yao didn’t have to stand in his way like that –

‘Detective Honda?’

The ground grew cold beneath Kiku, a sliver of light prying through his eyelids. He groaned as he opened his eyes a little more, head aching even at the dim light of the room. A cold drop of water splashed onto him from the ceiling.

‘Detective Honda? Are you awake…?’

There was a dull pain in Kiku’s arm, the muscles of it strained. It was held up, chained to something. Kiku struggled to decide if he should close his eyes to alleviate the headache, or open them fully to check on the state of his arm.

‘Detective… Don’t make me call out your name again... My voice is bloody strained as it is...’

A door shut closed elsewhere, the sound jolting Kiku’s eyes open. He was met with the sight of a mottled ceiling, a wet and darkened patch hanging above him. He gazed over towards the voice, finding a bruised and battered looking Arthur.

‘It’s… about time, Detective.’ Arthur said, the pace of his words unsteady and drunken. His face was pale, and it was only when Kiku propped himself up to sit that he noticed the pool of blood beneath Arthur’s leg. ‘It’s getting quite cold in here, don’t you think…?’

Kiku wiped the water off his face and took off the one sleeve of his jacket, attempting to tear out a strip from his shirt, but finding it difficult with only one hand free. He looked over to his hand, handcuffed to Arthur’s with the chain looped around a radiator pipe. He fumbled around his pockets for the key, coming up empty handed.

‘Do you have a pin? Something small like a toothpick?’ Kiku turned to Arthur. Arthur only shook his head and laughed.

‘Alfred will be here soon… Don’t worry your silly head about it!’

Kiku swallowed, realising Arthur had probably already lost a critical amount of blood. He rummaged through his pockets, searching for something – anything – that could help him pick the handcuff lock. He came across his belt buckle, the metal clasp. The prong was too large to use as a pick, undoubtedly, but perhaps…

Kiku brought his free wrist to his handcuffed hand, unclasping his watch and letting it fall to his lap. He picked it up, holding the watch clasp between his fingers. A small, metallic extension – it was almost perfect. He jammed the clasp piece into the handcuff lock, bending and twisting it slightly.

A tiny click. The handcuff widened and slid off his wrist, freeing Arthur’s hand from the radiator pipe. Arthur’s arm limply fell to the ground. Kiku tore off a piece of his shirt, wrapping the strip around Arthur’s bleeding leg. Pulling the knot tight, Arthur hissed in pain, his head lolling down.

‘Doctor Kirkland.’ Kiku pat Arthur’s cheek, trying to get him to open his eyes. ‘A-Arthur? Try to stay awake, please.’

‘I’m bloody trying…’ Arthur’s eyes fluttered open, still half-lidded and heavy. Kiku offered a reassuring smile.

‘Yes, I know. But you need to keep your eyes open until the ambulance arrives.’ Kiku stood up, glancing around the dingy room, his phone nowhere in sight. ‘Stay here and try to put some pressure on your leg. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Kiku left the basement, surprised that the door had been left unlocked. He hurried up the stairs and into the hallway, taking careful steps though he was sure Yao had left by now. He spotted his smashed up phone on the floor and picked it up. Perhaps too optimistic, Kiku tried to turn it on, but the phone was beyond saving. He dropped it back onto the floor. He would have to get to his car for help.

Kiku turned to leave, stopping short at the sight of his gun on the floor. The smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air, reminding Kiku that it was his bullet that had done this to Arthur. Kiku picked up the gun, itching to drop it out of guilt. But even so, he might need it. If he encountered Yao again, he couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t let his guard down.

He reloaded the gun and headed back into the basement.

‘We’re going to my car, Arthur.’ Kiku leant down to help Arthur up.

‘What about Alfred…’

‘He’ll come to meet us soon. Let’s just get you to a hospital first, okay?’

Kiku slung Arthur’s arm over his shoulder, Arthur wincing at the movement. He led him out of the house, into the raging blizzard. Almost pitch black out, only the moonlight gave Kiku some kind of guidance toward the road. Their footsteps were slow and heavy, dragging through the snow.

‘There’s… a gun on your hip, Kiku.’ Arthur said, voice barely a mumble by Kiku’s ear.

‘Yes.’

‘You plan on using it?’ Arthur was shivering, teeth chattering. Kiku hoped it was from the cold and not the blood loss.

‘If I have to, yes.’

Arthur only hummed in agreement, head almost lolling against Kiku’s shoulder. Kiku trudged down the road, spotting his car parked just a little further down. And beyond that… Beyond that he was sure Yao and Ivan are running, along with the lives of the seventy-seven men and women they had taken.

Kiku blinked backs the tears the wind was causing his eyes to shed, the gun feeling heavy on his hip. Even so, perhaps more than ever, Kiku was ready to use it.

* * *

_Alfred, dear…_

The voice rang in Alfred’s head as he sped down the road, passing by the police cars that were headed in the same direction. He wasn’t sure what he would find. A dead body, perhaps many, perhaps none at all. Or maybe – Arthur, alive and well.

Alfred dismissed the thought, choosing not to even consider what might just happen when he got there. He didn’t want to give himself the chance to hope for more, and yet, that voice on the phone sprung hope more than anything. He didn’t have to lose Arthur, not like he lost his sister. Arthur wasn’t going to disappear, wasn’t going to vanish without Alfred ever getting to even say goodbye. Not on Alfred’s watch.

A black car passed by in the opposite direction, driving far too close to the middle of the road. Alfred caught onto the sight of it for a brief moment, his thoughts snagged onto it. But it wasn’t what he was here for. Catching the beast, that’s what he was here for. The house at the end of this seemingly endless and pitch black road, that was where he was heading. And yet –

Alfred spun the steering wheel, tires screeching on the asphalt. Police cars swerved to avoid hitting him, driving on toward the house in the distance. He watched the black car ahead disappear, leaving only its tail lights for Alfred to follow. He slammed his foot onto the pedal, engine roaring as it sped across the road.

 _I won’t let you get away from me again_. Alfred exhaled slowly as he approached the car, having to match its erratic and fluctuating speed. The beast thought it could get away so easily, thought it could slip past him like a passing by stranger. It wasn’t going to happen. This car chase could last forever on a road like this, but Alfred was going to end it here and now while he still had the chance.

He rolled down the window, sirens blaring into his ear and ice cold air piercing into his skin. He took his gun out of its holster and held it out the window, shivering from both the cold and the adrenaline rushing through his veins. It was just like in the movies, just like those action heroes Alfred idolised as a young boy. But it wasn’t exciting, it didn’t feel like an adventure. His gun aiming unsteadily at the car, towards the wheels, Alfred only felt fear, the weight of that gun in his hands.

He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger.

* * *

‘It’ll be over before you know it.’

Yao exhaled shakily against Ivan’s chest, not caring for the bloodstains sticking to his skin as he tried to listen for that heartbeat. But beneath the car engine, the blizzard screeching against the windows, it was only a faint thud. Frantic and panicked in its pulse, betraying the calm in Ivan’s voice.

 _I don’t want it to be over_.

Sirens grew louder, blaring and fighting among the many noises that Ivan’s pulse was buried in. Yao swallowed, pressing closer so he wouldn’t lose it. No, he didn’t want to be over. Because when all of this was finished, when Ivan had killed and torn up the last man, there wasn’t going to be an after. He would lose another piece of Ivan, lose him to the crossed out pictures on the wall. And after that, surely after that, he would lose Ivan completely to the sirens chasing after them.

A gunshot pierced the air, scratching against the metal of the car door. Yao flinched, Ivan pushing him down onto the car seat before he could even turn to look out the rear window.

‘Stay down.’ Ivan said, his hold on Yao crushingly tight as the car swerved. More gunshots rang out.

‘Why?’ Yao turned his head, breath heavy with panic as he bumped his face into Ivan’s. ‘So I can survive and watch you get yourself killed?’

‘Yao, I told you it's going to be fine.’ Ivan’s breaths were heavy too, his eyes betraying fear. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

Yao shook his head, tensing up and shutting his eyes tight as the car swerved again. ‘No…’

‘I want you to.’

‘I can’t.’ Yao swallowed, a knot growing in his throat. ‘It’s not going to be fine, Ivan. Not with them chasing us, not with you killing again.’

‘ _Myshka_ , you know I have to. You’ve known that from the start, haven’t you?’ Ivan’s words were almost a whisper, but they were too close for Yao to ignore. ‘What else am I supposed to do with the nightmares they left me with? They don’t go away, Yao…’

‘I know.’ Yao said, unable to even croak out what he really wanted to say. ‘I know that-’

_(but I love you)_

Yao choked a sob, the knot having grown unbearably painful in his throat.

‘Yao…’ Ivan crooned, wiping away tears Yao hadn’t realized were streaming down his cheeks. Ivan’s voice sounded thin, as if it could break at any moment. ‘ _Ne plach_ , Yao. Please don’t…’

Yao shook his head, swallowing back the sobs in his throat. ‘Then don’t give me a reason to. Let’s just… Let’s just go somewhere else. Anywhere, I don’t care. Just not that house, not that place-’

‘I can’t do that-’

‘You can. We can… We - We can just plant sunflowers.’ Yao’s voice broke, unable to contain his tears. ‘And – and you can cook whatever you want. And I’ll eat it, I won’t complain. Even if its soup every day, I don’t care. And if you want to just waltz, that’s what we’ll do. And – and-’

Ivan’s brows were pinched, gaze watery enough to nearly set off another sob in Yao’s throat.

‘And if you want to talk about your nightmares, I’ll listen. I won’t kick you out. And we’ll have a nicer Christmas this year, I promise. I won’t get drunk, I won’t run away. I’ll stay with you, Ivan. I promise-’

‘Yao, don’t say things like that...’

A gunshot burst into the air, hitting one of the car mirrors. The car rumbled, veering off into rougher ground.

‘But it’s true.’ Yao wrapped his arms around Ivan, sniffling. ‘I’ll stay with you. Even with the nightmares and the scars. It doesn’t matter to me. We can leave everything else behind. I just want you.’

Even with the tear streaks on Ivan’s cheeks, a chuckle burst out of Ivan, the sound setting Yao’s heart fluttering. He cradled Yao’s face in his hands, a soft smile on his lips. ‘ _Ochi chernye_ …’

‘Is… Is that a yes?’

Ivan nodded. ‘ _Da_.’

Ivan pressed his lips onto Yao’s, the taste of tears on their tongues. The knot in Yao’s throat melted away, dissolved until Yao couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. Feeling Ivan’s breath mix into his, not even the sirens and gunshots could scare him. No, he didn’t want this to be over. He didn’t want this to ever end.

Another bang echoed out, shattering into the kiss. The back window cracked and sent the car into a violent swerve, spinning and tumbling until it crashed.

* * *

The car came to a halt, jolting Arthur and his injured leg in the backseat. He bit back a cry of pain, prying his eyes open to look at Kiku in the driver’s seat.

‘What is it…?’ Arthur croaked out, voice feeling scratchy and weak.

Kiku glanced back, hesitating to answer. ‘Someone’s had a car accident. I’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Hold on-’ Arthur called out, but Kiku had already left and shut the door. _It’s not Alfred, is it…?_

Arthur pressed his forehead against the ice cold window, condensation clouding over it as he watched Kiku approach a car parked off the road, its headlights still running. Up ahead, it illuminated the battered ruins of a black car, turn upside down in the snow.

Arthur’s breath grew shallow, watching the smoke rising from the car and being swept away by the blizzard. He weakly knocked against the window, trying to catch Kiku’s expression as he knelt to inspect the driver’s seat of the battered car. Kiku leant and pulled a man out, dragging his body out into the snow. Arthur spotted the man’s brown hair and breathed out a sigh of relief, vision flickering from the sudden exhale.

He looked to the other car, doors open and engine still running. Footprints led out into the forest, snow burying them with every passing moment. Arthur wanted to follow them, to catch them before they disappeared.

Ice cold air rushed into the car, prickling Arthur’s skin. He turned towards Kiku, who was placing the man into the passenger seat.

‘Where’s the other driver?’ Arthur asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Kiku answered, hasty in his tone as he adjusted the man’s head on the seat, setting it upright. ‘But…’

‘It’s Alfred, isn’t it?’

Kiku looked up at him. A gunshot echoed, a faint bang in the snowy blizzard.

‘Stay here, Arthur.’

Arthur lunged forward in his seat. ‘Wait-’

‘The ambulance will be here for you soon. Please don’t leave the car.’

The car door shut, Kiku’s shadow heading up towards the forest treeline. Arthur banged his fist onto the window.

‘Hey-’

But the wind was roaring too loud, and Arthur’s voice was too weak, for Kiku to hear. He disappeared among the trees, leaving a fresh set of footprints in the snow. Arthur slid his forehead down the window, the glass ice cold on his skin. He sighed and watched his breath form a misty cloud of condensation.

 _So much for being a monster in disguise –_ that’s what he imagined Alfred would say to him. Disappointed, for sure, that Arthur had not risen out of that creaky old house in the blood of his captors, that Arthur lay here injured like a victim and not a predator.

The truth of the matter was, Arthur was no more than the scared child his father made him into. It was foolish to think he could somehow grow into something stronger, something different and terrifying. A mere fantasy, is what it was. Putting on the gentleman’s hat and cane, pretending to be someone else…

_I’m a bloody fool. And a half-dead one at that._

Arthur shut his eyes against the window, hearing the wind scratch and whisper against the glass. He’d already lost a lot of blood, and it would take more than Kiku’s optimistic reassurances to convince him he would make it out of this alive. He couldn’t even keep his head up, let alone feel the tips of his fingers. Arthur was slipping away, second by second. No ambulance could save him now.

A weak chuckle burst out of Arthur. _So is this it, then? This is how I die?_ Alone amidst a blizzard, cold and wallowing in self-pity. Certainly not how he had envisioned his death. He had always hoped he’d age gracefully, somehow. Perhaps even take someone down with him in this spiral towards death by old age - someone who would put up with his idiocies and ramblings, someone he could value in secret, whose mind Arthur could nest himself in.

‘You could have been that, Alfred… if you wanted to…’

The words sounded strange when Arthur said them, hanging in the air as if waiting for a reply. Of course, Arthur would never get one. He leant back in the car seat and exhaled shakily, vision flickering like candlelight at the edges. As if drowning, the world seemed to push down on him, steal his breath away slowly and suffocating him. But Arthur wasn’t fighting it, wasn’t kicking his legs or holding onto his breath. Just sinking to the very bottom, watching the world drift further and further away.

The feeling struck a lonely ache in his chest, growing at the thought that maybe, possibly, Alfred was out there in those woods, thinking of Arthur fighting for his life when in reality he was doing nothing more than lying here like a slaughtered lamb.

_What more can I do, really…_

Arthur pried his eyes open, gazing lazily at the snowstorm outside. Kiku’s footprints were now disappearing, fading away beneath falling snow. The lights of the abandoned car still illuminated the car wreck, shining onto the forest behind it like a spotlight, an empty limelight just waiting for Arthur to step in.

Arthur leant forward in his seat, gripping the fabric of his trousers tightly. He could do it, if he wanted to. Arthur could stumble out there like an utter fool, leave a bloody trail in his wake and pass out in the snow. He could die trying to catch up to Alfred, a limp man chasing someone he could never reach.

A smile tugged at Arthur’s lips, the idea amusing somehow. He could try…

He opened the car door, the weight of it incredibly heavy as he pushed it open. Snow flurried and rushed into the car, teasing Arthur’s bruised throat and melting on his shivering skin. He half climbed out, gritting his teeth and bearing the pain in his leg. He dragged his injured leg out, planting both feet into the snow and bracing himself.

He stood up on wobbly legs, only to lose balance and fall to the ground.

‘Bugger me…’ Arthur groaned, crawling up from the ground. Already panting, already feeling dizzy enough to pass out, he clenched his fists in the snow and felt the ice sting on his skin. Perhaps with all this pain, with the cold and the fear of never making it to Alfred, he could stay conscious.

It was this that Arthur held onto as he stumbled up, feeling the flesh of his leg singe and tear with every movement. He wasn’t going to waste away in this snowy prison as a lamb, wouldn’t surrender. Because even if the snow soaked up the last of his blood, even if the blizzard snatched away the last of his breath before he could reach Alfred, Arthur was going to damn well die trying.

* * *

Panting, gasping for air, Yao was sure his lungs would burst. His heart, pumping and squeezing hard enough for Yao to fear it wouldn’t be able to keep up. Ivan’s hand was tugging at his, trying to keep Yao with him in spite of nauseating dizziness that had overtaken Yao. Blood was dripping down his forehead, cooling on his skin. But there wasn’t time to wipe away the blood, to check the various aches and pains scattered across Yao’s body, to even ask Ivan where they were even running to in this endless forest.

Footsteps followed behind them, crushing snow and catching up to them. Yao and Ivan reached a small clearing, moonlight glaring down on the shimmery snow. It would have been beautiful, if they hadn’t been running away.

‘Here, _myshka_.’ Ivan stood with his back against a tree, yanking Yao into his hold. ‘Stay quiet.’

‘Ivan, our tracks-’ Ivan’s hand clamped over Yao’s mouth, footsteps growing close, slower and quieter against the wind that was kicking up snow and rattling tree branches. Yao felt his breath resist against Ivan’s hand, far too heavy and far too panicked to stay quiet. He felt Ivan’s chest rising and falling heavily against his back, betraying whatever calm Ivan tried to feign.

The footsteps stopped, pausing to shuffle in hesitance. Trees groaned as they resisted against the blizzard, their branches swaying. Moonlight streamed through them, forming patterns on the snow, frail little shapes that Yao watched as he listened for movement. He nearly jumped in place when a voice pierced the air.

‘Come on out, Ivan.’

Footsteps resumed, pacing carefully, unsure. The voice panted, swallowing in an attempt to regain his breath. ‘I know you and your friend are here. Give yourselves up.’

Ivan’s arms tightened around Yao. The voice had grown closer, footsteps approaching.

‘It’s over no matter where you go. You know that, don’t you?’

Ivan’s hand slid down to Yao’s chin, drawing it towards him. ‘Stay here.’ Ivan said, voice barely a murmur against the howling winds.

A footstep landed, just behind them. He felt Ivan start to slide away from him, leaving the shadow of the tree.

Yao tensed and shook his head. _Don’t_ -

A gunshot burst into the air as Ivan slipped away from Yao. Something thumped into the ground, the gun landing by Yao’s feet. A terrified lump in his throat, he picked up the gun with trembling fingers and stepped out of the tree’s shadow. He was almost tempted to shut his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

‘Yao, run!’

Ivan’s hands were wrapped around the man’s throat – the man who, even in the moonlit darkness, Yao recognized from the Poisoned Apple. The man was struggling beneath Ivan’s weight, hands clawing at Ivan’s face and leaving red trails. Yao raised the gun, aiming for the man’s head.

‘Yao!’ Ivan said, glancing up with widened eyes. ‘I got this, don’t worry about me-’

The man yanked at Ivan’s scarf, tightening it around Ivan’s throat and making him choke out in surprise.

‘Stop!’ Yao stepped forward, cocking the gun. ‘Stop it!’

The man freezed, eyes widening in recognition. ‘You-’

A bang echoed out through the forest, a flying bullet kicking up the snow. But it’s not from Yao’s gun, not from his finger on the trigger. Red bloomed on Ivan’s side, grip loosening on the man’s throat as he fell over.

‘Ivan!’

Before Yao could reach him, another gunshot rang out. The bullet hit by his feet.

‘Don’t move.’

Kiku emerged from behind one of the trees, gun aimed at Ivan’s head. Yao felt his balance grow unsteady, sweat breaking out on his skin despite the cold. The man on the ground started to sit up. Panicked, Yao tightened his grip on the gun and re-aimed it at him.

‘Drop the gun.’ Kiku said, the coldness of his words cutting through Yao. ‘Or I shoot.’

* * *

The gun nearly slipped in Kiku’s shivering hands, watching red seep into the snow from where he had shot the man. A stifled cry broke out of Yao’s throat.

‘Kiku, please…’

‘Drop the gun.’

Yao shook his head, tightening the grip on his gun. ‘Let me and Ivan go.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘You can’t kill Ivan either.’ Yao said, voice trembling as he stepped closer to Alfred and grabbed him by the collar. ‘But… But I can kill him. It wouldn’t be new for me, would it? K-Killing someone - you can’t do that.’

‘I will if I have to.’

‘Kiku-’ Alfred started, but Yao yanked his collar.

‘You wouldn’t.’ Yao said.

‘I almost killed you before, didn’t I?’ Kiku said, his voice cold and fragile like ice. He could only hope it wouldn’t break, wouldn’t betray the choked feeling in his throat. Alfred’s eyes widened, the expression leaving Kiku’s insides twisting and coiling up in shame. No one had known of what Kiku did, of the cruelty he had been responsible for. Kiku had always wanted to keep it that way. But there was no hiding it anymore. ‘It won’t bother me, to kill a murderer like him. I’ll do it. If you don’t drop that gun, I’ll do it.’

Yao’s face paled, almost white in the moonlight. ‘H-How can you say that? You…’

‘Kiku, what are you saying, man?’ Alfred said, eyes still wide as if in shock. As if Kiku was outright lying, as if he didn’t even know what he was saying. As if he were still the same, innocent Kiku on the inside.

‘Does he know?’ Yao nudged the gun against Alfred’s temple, his voice unsteady and croaked. ‘Have you told him what you did? Or should I tell him?’

Alfred’s eyes looked to Kiku for an answer. Kiku swallowed, unable to meet Alfred’s eyes. Alfred seemed to understand something, expression faltering into what could have been disappointment. Or perhaps hurt. Kiku wasn’t sure, neither did he want to be.

‘That doesn’t matter now.’ Kiku said, drawing in a slow breath and exhaling, as if he could somehow cleanse out the guilt this way. ‘Backup is on the way. When they get here, it’ll be more than just one gun pointed at you and Ivan. You might as well turn yourselves in now.’

‘You’re lying.’ Yao said.

‘Ivan is losing blood, too.’ Kiku pressed the gun closer to Ivan’s head, nudging it. ‘The sooner you cooperate and drop that gun, the sooner he can get to a hospital.’

‘Don’t listen to him.’ Ivan panted, bloodstained hands shaking as they gripped his wounded side. ‘I’ll… be fine…’

‘Don’t you start lying to me, too.’ Yao said, voice breaking as his aim on Alfred wavered. He looked to Kiku, a pleading look in his eyes. Kiku only stared back, emptying out his thoughts so that everything was merely mechanical, merely something that had to be done. Numb - just like then.

Yao’s eyes widened - the same fear, the same betrayed hurt in them. But Kiku didn’t think of it, kept his gun aimed at Ivan though his hands were shaking. Kept his eyes on Yao though tiny pricks of tears were starting to form. This had nothing to do with _then_. Nothing to do with the freedom Kiku once sought, with the secret hatred that had boiled up for Yao, with the need to be his own person. This was almost a different life entirely, one in which Yao was the monster, not him. It was Yao. The murderer, the torturer, the bloodthirsty beast. Yao had grown into something terrifying, though Kiku couldn’t see it now in the shivering and trembling man before him. Even so, Kiku would play the part of the hunter, because it was his job. This was his responsibility, his mistake to fix.

In the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. Kiku ignored it, tightening his grip on the gun and nudging it once again on Ivan’s head.

‘He might be too weak to even make it to the hospital if you don’t hurry.’

Yao looked to Ivan, brows pinched in distress. Ivan shook his head.

‘Yao, don’t…’

A shadow stumbled between the trees, footsteps lost in the sound of crumbling snow and hissing air. An animal, Kiku reasoned as he kept his gaze fixed on Yao. But the shadow was circling around them, like a predator judging its prey. It stopped at a distance behind Yao.

Yao pulled his gun away from Alfred’s head, hands shaking as they presented the gun forward.

‘Yao…’ Ivan said, voice weak.

‘Sorry, Ivan.’ Yao croaked out. Through even the broken voice, a small smile tugged at his lips. ‘We’ll just have to waltz behind bars.’

The shadow stumbled forward, approaching and revealing Arthur’s ghostly pale face in the moonlight. Kiku’s breath shortens, dread in his chest as Ivan seemed to take notice.

‘Yao, behind you!’

Yao’s smile fell, his grip on the gun tightening as he turned around and aimed it blindly. Kiku raised his gun at Yao, finger pressing down on the trigger. Ivan knocked Kiku down, gunshots cutting through the roaring of the blizzard.

A body thumped to the ground. Footsteps on snow, stumbling and running. He heard Alfred cry out.

‘Arthur!’

Kiku scrambled up from the ground, gun aiming for the backs of Yao and Ivan as they ran, even as his own balance swayed. He pulled the trigger, a bang shooting through the air. Nothing. He pulled the trigger again, and again, and again, not even able to see if he had hit or missed. His ears were ringing by the time the gun clicked faintly. Empty. Yao and Ivan were gone, swallowed up by the forest. Kiku wanted to collapse to his knees, rest against the snow and let it bury him. This poison in his chest, this ache – it seemed to worsen no matter what he did. Dead or alive, imprisoned or free, Yao was always there as the guilt in Kiku’s chest.

‘Arthur!’ Alfred called out again, a choked sob caught in the name. Kiku dropped his gun, hurrying over to Alfred. Arthur was lying in the snow, red blooming out beneath his shoulder. Alfred was crouched over him, hands desperately trying to press onto Arthur’s shoulder wound.

‘Kiku, get an ambulance.’ Alfred said. When Kiku only stood there, numbness still in his veins, Alfred looked up at him with a furious gaze. ‘Kiku. An ambulance!’

‘One is already on the way…’ Kiku said, voice almost a whisper. Arthur was panting, hyperventilating on the ground and hands clutching at Alfred’s bloodied ones. His skin almost matched the snow, ghoulish in its colour. Ambulance sirens were wailing in the distance.

‘You’re gonna be fine, Artie…’ Alfred lifted Arthur’s head up onto his lap, cradling it as his voice broke. ‘You’re gonna be fine, I promise…’

Arthur didn’t speak a word, only gazing up at Alfred with the widened eyes of someone who had been deprived of the sun for too long. He was shaking violently, lips trembling. Kiku wasn’t sure if it was from the cold, or perhaps the massive blood loss. Either way, when Alfred’s tears fall onto his cheeks, Arthur smiled.

* * *

 Yao tugged at Ivan’s hand, urging him to keep up as they continued to run from the bullets, stumbling over logs and nearly slipping on icy slopes. Tree branches scratched and clawed at him, but that didn’t matter right now. No, nothing except getting Ivan out of here, away from Kiku, away from those bullets and those handcuffs and everything else. The entire world seemed to be trying to kill them, heaps of snow sliding off tree branches and hitting them. Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, slowing Yao’s steps.

‘Yao-’ Ivan panted.

Yao turned around, his heart lurching at the sight. Red splotches, fresh blood, was seeping through Ivan’s coat, two massive sprawls of blood on his abdomen and side. ‘Ivan-’ Yao reached forward before Ivan could collapse, struggling to hold him up.

‘I don’t think I… can run anymore…’ Ivan said, voice hoarse. He coughed, falling the ground and doubling over. Deep red fluid splattered onto the snow, blooming into a horrible stain that sent Yao’s throat into a twisted knot. He crouched to the ground, placing a hand on Ivan’s shoulder and feeling it tremble.

‘We need to go back.’

Ivan shook his head, teeth chattering as he wiped the blood away from his mouth. ‘W-We can’t.’

‘What do you mean we can’t?’ Yao tilted his head down, trying to catch sight of Ivan’s expression when no reply came. ‘Ivan?’

‘I’m sorry, _myshka_.’ A weak chuckle left Ivan’s lips, though it was pained and forced. ‘I just… don’t think I’m going to make it back.’

‘ _Aiyah_ , don’t say things like that…’ Yao said, swallowing and fighting to keep his voice from breaking as he watched Ivan’s knuckles whiten like the snow beneath them. ‘You just… You need to rest up a bit. Come on.’ He helped Ivan up, guiding him to a fallen tree he could rest against.

‘I need to have a look at your wounds.’ Yao said, evening his breath and checking Ivan’s eyes. They gazed back at him, half-lidded from tiredness, but still conscious, still there. Yao unfasted his coat and carefully peeled away the fabric of his shirt from the wounds. Deep crimson was bleeding out, trickling out from open gashes where the bullets had torn through flesh. Yao bit back a cry, pressing his hands to them to stop the bleeding. Ivan placed his hands over Yao’s, fingers trembling and pale.

‘Just wrap them up and I’ll be fine.’ Ivan said, though his breaths were laboured, chest rising and falling heavily. Yao nodded, choosing to ignore the weakness in Ivan’s voice, the strain he put into saying those words. He tore strips of fabric from his shirt, wrapping them tightly around Ivan, watching with dread as they quickly turned from white to red. With quivering hands, Yao closed Ivan’s coat.

‘We can…’ Yao’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. ‘We can still get you to a hospital.’

Ivan’s hand brushed against Yao’s arm, brows pinched. ‘Your arm…’

Yao looked down to his arm, his sleeve drenched in red. As if his body had only just realised he had been shot, a wave of burning pain hit him. He drew in a sharp breath.

‘D-Don’t worry about that.’ Yao clutched at his arm as if he could contain the pain somehow. ‘You… You should stay here while I get help.’

Yao motioned to get up, only for Ivan to grab the hem of his jacket.

‘Please stay.’ Ivan’s eyes were widened, a raw panic in them that sent Yao’s stomach twisting painfully. He knelt back down, throat knotted when Ivan’s expression softened, a tired but gentle smile sweeping over his lips.

‘Come here…’ Ivan’s hand weakly brushed against his shoulder, guiding Yao closer so that his chin rested on Ivan’s shoulder. Yao shifted, hesitantly placing his hands on Ivan’s chest and almost being able to feel the weak thud of Ivan’s heart. Fingers started to stroke Yao’s hair, smoothing over it. Yao felt the knot in his throat rise, tears threatening to spill.

‘It’s okay…’ Ivan murmured.

Something in those words hurt Yao, set the tension in his throat snapping and breaking into a sob. He grasped the fabric of Ivan’s coat, feeling hot tears prick his eyes and trickle down onto Ivan’s shoulder. He shook his head, the ache in his chest growing as the words left his throat.

‘It’s not okay.’

‘It is. You should believe me, _myshka_.’

‘You’re bleeding out.’ Yao spoke through broken sobs, unable to stop. ‘You can’t just… do that. Not now.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ Yao pulled back, swallowing back down his sobs and wiping his tears. ‘Stay with me.’

Blood trickled from Ivan’s lip, the fluid almost black in moonlight. Yao wiped it away, only to smear it across Ivan’s pale skin. The sight reminded him, painfully jabbed at him the long ago memory of watching Ivan kill a man for the first time, of watching his pale face beam at him like an innocent child, like Yao’s reassuring touch was something scarce and precious. It was this same expression that Ivan wore now, eyes clouded over with drowsiness as Ivan leaned into Yao’s hand. Only now his eyelids were falling heavy, closing…

‘Ivan?’ Yao pat his cheek, afraid that once Ivan’s eyes closed they would never open again. Ivan’s eyes fluttered open by the slightest, his voice barely a murmur.

‘I’m fine, _myshka_. Just… want to close my eyes for a bit.’

‘Please don’t…’

‘It’s not something I can fight.’

‘You have to.’

Ivan’s brows pinched, voice fragile and unsteady. ‘I… don’t think I can…’

‘You can.’ Yao said, sniffling and brushing away the snow flecks from Ivan’s shoulders and face. ‘You will. And we’ll get out of here. We’ll be fine, like you said.’

‘And waltz our lives away…?’ A smile tugged onto Ivan’s lips, chest rising and falling in smaller, shallower breaths, growing weaker.

‘Yeah.’ Yao smiled back, though the tears still seemed to be falling. ‘And we’ll have a nice garden, too, with the sunflowers that you like.’

Ivan hummed, a stray tear rolling down his cheek. ‘It sounds like a nice place to be, _myshka_ …’

‘It is.’ Yao drew in a shaky breath, not wanting to break out into a sob again. ‘It’s going to be our home, Ivan.’

‘I’m… glad…’ Ivan’s eyes closed gently, softly like the snow on his skin. His breaths slowed to a halt, chest frozen. Yao whimpered, patting Ivan’s cheek.

‘Ivan?’

Ivan’s head only hung low, without response. Yao cradled his face with both of his hands, feeling the warmth of his cheeks fading away. Eyes closed shut, angelic in their peace. Not a breath, not a blink.

‘Ivan!’ The name ripped out of Yao’s throat, tearing his heart along with it. ‘Ivan, please…’

Uncontrollable sobs forced their way out of Yao, his entire body convulsing along with them. He pressed Ivan’s head into his chest, burying his face into Ivan’s snow flecked hair. Sirens wailed in the distance, distorted and blaring among the winds that had settled into a breeze, as if they too, had left along with Ivan.

‘Don’t leave…’

The words were barely a whisper, tiny in a voice that had died in Yao’s throat. Just like everything else, just like his heart, which felt as though it had been hollowed out and torn into pieces. His body collapsed, curled up and fell against Ivan’s soundless chest. And Yao was sure too, that his own heart had stopped beating somehow. He was dead already, gone the moment Ivan’s heart fell quiet.

It was because of this, that when sirens grew louder and footsteps approached, Yao could only lie there in surrender.


	22. Worth Waiting For

* * *

 

_But I am not sad, I am not sorrowful,_

_My fate is soothing to me:_

_All that is best in life that God gave us,_

_In sacrifice I returned to the fiery eyes!_

 

* * *

The sound of a phone ringing jolted Kiku from his sleep. He groaned and sat up on the couch, tangled in blankets. The television was still on, the volume soft as blaring images of a flood flashed on the screen. The high pitched shrill of the phone rang again, setting Kiku into motion as he muted the television and picked up the phone.

‘Kiku Honda speaking.’

There was an audible breath of relief on the other side of the phone, hesitance as the person seemed to fumble with the phone. ‘K-Kiku. Hey… It’s Yao.’

Kiku tensed in his seat, gripping the phone tighter. This was the first time he had heard Yao’s voice in a long time, perhaps even in the entirety of the past three years. But the memory of it had never faded for Kiku, always as clear as it rang now.

‘Is… something wrong?’ Kiku asked.

‘No, nothing’s wrong. Well-’ Yao stopped short, hesitating to continue. ‘I mean. Of course something is wrong. I’m going to be dead in two hours, so-’ A chuckle broke out of Yao’s voice, the sound weak and resigned. When it died out, his voice had grown softer. ‘They uh… They said I could make a final call.’

‘Oh.’

Kiku eyed the clock on his wall. No, he hadn’t forgotten. He very well knew what today was. Otherwise, he would not have drunk half a bottle of cheap wine to lull him into drowsiness, to coax him into sleep so that he would not be awake when it happened, so that he could not even regret for a second that he didn’t make it to Yao’s execution. The hour was ten in the evening now. He could still make it, if he wanted to-

‘Kiku?’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry, I… wasn’t really thinking when I called -’ Yao’s stopped again, rethinking and hesitating once again. ‘Maybe I should just hang up-’

‘Don’t.’ Kiku blurted out. ‘I… I’m sorry,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure what exactly he was apologizing for. For not speaking, for not comforting Yao when he needed it, for incarcerating Yao in the first place, for putting that bullet in Ivan’s stomach, for stabbing Yao all those years ago. Kiku drew his knees up to his chest, stomach churning with a familiar sense of guilt.

‘It’s okay.’ Yao answered, though Kiku wasn’t sure what he was talking about either. Everything felt disconnected and jumbled, Kiku’s thoughts swimming in memories he thought he had put to sleep.

_Shouldn’t I have protected him?_

‘Kiku…’ Yao started, voice crackling over the phone. ‘I just wanted you to know that I… I don’t hate you.’

Kiku swallowed, remembering Yao’s widened eyes when he had shot Ivan, when he had pointed the gun to his head, when he had pulled out a knife in their own home.

‘You’re still my brother.’ Yao said. ‘And it doesn’t matter what you do, or even if you hate me. I don’t want to die and leave you alone and thinking… Leave you thinking that no one loves you. Because I do, Kiku.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Kiku said, a lump forming in his throat. ‘You shouldn’t be telling me this. How am I supposed to-’

_How am I supposed to live with what I did?_

But the question never left his lips, only a silent sob. He grasped at the blankets strewn around him, his chest hurting as the cry left his throat. Yao was quiet on the other end of the phone, soft sniffles sounding out.

‘They… They told me I can have family at the execution.’ Yao said, clearing his throat. ‘I was hoping you’d be there. I just want a familiar face there, you know… when it happens.’

Kiku shook his head, wiping the tears from his cheeks and hoping Yao couldn’t hear his sniffles. ‘I… I can’t.’

‘You can’t or you won’t?’

Kiku drew out an exhale, his breath shaky and uneven. Tears still streaming down his cheeks, Kiku felt as though they were tears that should have flowed long ago. Sobs ached to burst out of him, a dull pain in his head as he tried to contain the grief washing over him.

‘P-Please understand, Yao…’

A silence, though Kiku couldn’t hear if Yao was crying on the other end too. Then, the phone closed, a gentle click in Kiku’s ear. He put the phone down, a withheld cry breaking out of his throat.

_I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…_

The words rang childishly in his head, desperately as he buried his face into a pillow and let tears soak it. He couldn’t seem to stop crying, each time a new wave of sadness washing over him relentlessly, remembering every instance he had hurt Yao, every instance he had left him in search of something better. His own home… he had destroyed it.

He could still see the knife that had carved up Yao, the bloody pool Kiku had left him in – the mangled corpses Yao and Ivan had left, the desperate splatters of blood they had created. Even Yong Soo, who had been left soaking in his own blood. These red and vivid images were burnt in Kiku’s memory, guilt festering at the sight of them. Corpses like replays of the same film, frenzied re-enactments of an old scar that Kiku had caused. If he hadn’t stabbed Yao, hadn’t torn his heart in two… Kiku wondered if things could have turned out differently, if perhaps Yao would have never turned into the beast he became.

Humid night air teased in through the window, caressing his hair. He lifted his head up from the pillow, tears drying on his cheeks. The curtains were swaying in the breeze, gentle moonlight brimming through the seams and edges. Kiku got up, steadying his breath as he watched, entranced by the moonlit shapes on the floor.

Kiku walked towards the window, trailing his hand between the curtains and letting moonlight bathe it. He was tempted to yank away the curtain, to gaze up and look at the moon that was waiting for him on the other side. Like always, never changing.

But instead, his hand faltered. Yao wouldn’t see it. Not tonight, not ever again. The last thing he would see would be the cold fluorescent light above him as his life slipped away, only strangers watching him from behind the window. The thought sat uneasily in Kiku’s chest, eating away at it.

_I’m sorry, Yao._

These were words that would remain marked on his heart, a scar that would never fade. It buried itself deeper, along with everything else painful and unpleasant. Numbness fell over, clarity as he drew back the curtain. For now, he could only hope that history wouldn’t repeat itself again.

* * *

The gentle ticking of Alfred’s watch was irritatingly noticeable in the quiet of his office. He sighed as he rearranged documents in a folder, organizing and reshuffling them. For what, exactly… he wasn’t sure. Whittling time away, really. Keeping sleep at bay, not wanting to return to his stuffy new apartment. He had only been there half a year or so, and yet the place had seemingly transformed into his old place – the air thick with coffee and whisky, old clothing piled on the floor and couches, the entire apartment just dark and dim and _stale_. That was his apartment now, his new office even, both of which he had hoped to be a fresh start instead.

He filed away his papers, sorting through reports of abandoned cars and drunken couple arguments gone wrong. This was the sort of town Alfred had picked, after all. A small, everybody knows everyone kind of town. Where detectives like Alfred only had the occasional bar fight to investigate, the odd robbery here and there. And yet… how he wished he had a real investigation on his hands. Horrible as it might be, Alfred wished he had something dangerous to pursue, a killer on the loose. A beast…

Alfred’s eyes caught onto the sight of a cane, leaning against the corner of the room. His chest sank. He shouldn’t have brought it with him, should have left it behind with everything else that reminded him of that case. But it stuck to him like an extra limb, useless and good for nothing, yet somehow still part of him.

He took off his glasses and set them on the table. Rubbing his tired eyes, the idea of having a drink appealed to him. Not coffee. No, a _real_ drink.

He leaned down beneath his desk and brought out a bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the cap and gulped down straight from the bottle. Not really how whisky was meant to be drunk, but Alfred couldn’t care less. Everybody drank from the bottle in this shithole of a town.

Lifting the bottle to take another gulp, the sound of someone bumping into a desk stopped him still. He listened closely. Silence. Then, another stumble. Footsteps tripping over something. Alfred sighed and set the bottle down. The sounds had stopped, though Alfred was sure the culprit was just standing still and thinking they were being smart about it.

Alfred got up, pulling his gun out and approaching the door. It wouldn’t be the first time Alfred’s done this – confronted an intruder in the police station. Most of the time it was drunk kids, punks with too much alcohol and too much free time on their hands. They thought it was funny to trash the place up, maybe even tear up the police reports that got their daddy arrested for firing a gun on New Year’s Eve or something. Alfred had often been tempted to actually shoot and teach a lesson or two… but that would be a waste of a bullet, really.

His hand hovered over the handle. He could hear floorboards creaking on the other side of the door – they thought they were going to get to him first? Well-

‘Hands in the air!’ Alfred yanked the door open, gun aimed straight ahead. The muzzle bumped into the intruder’s head.

‘That’s… a lovely greeting you’ve got there, Alfred.’ Arthur said, not even flinching at the gun pointed at his head.

‘Arthur…?’ Alfred lowered the gun, his voice dry as his brows furrowed. ‘What… What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Well, I uh…’ A small smile etches on Arthur’s lips, his eyes not quite meeting Alfred’s. ‘I thought to pay you a visit.’

‘You… What?’ Alfred turned around as he watched Arthur enter the room, comfortable as if he had been in it before. ‘But how did you…?’

‘I didn’t think you’d have the heart to watch our dear boy die under the needle.’ Arthur sighed as he seated himself on top of Alfred’s desk, nudging aside the miniature American flag and whisky bottle. ‘And I figured you might… want some company. Or maybe none at all. I don’t know, Alfred. To be perfectly honest, the longer I know you the harder it gets to read you, you know-’

‘Yeah, but-’ Alfred shut the door, irritated and yet oddly jittery at the sight of Arthur sitting in his office, sitting on his desk like it was any other normal day. Like then, like three years ago. ‘How did you find me?’

‘It really wasn’t that hard.’ Arthur toyed with the flag, aligning it in various ways. ‘Kiku was happy to divulge your new address and workplace...’

‘Oh, and let me guess. Someone gave you the keys to the station, too.’

‘Uh, actually no.’ Arthur looked up, a sheepish smile on his lips. ‘I broke in.’

‘Oh my god…’ Alfred sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘You couldn’t have knocked? Or called?’

‘Where’s the fun in that, Alfred?’

‘Jesus Christ…’

‘Or should I say, _Detective Lieutenant Jones_? Hm?’ Arthur picked up the title card from Alfred’s desk. ‘You’ve been working hard as always, as I can see.’ He set the card back down onto the desk, a teasing smile on his lips. Alfred only stared back. Arthur cleared his throat and continued on anyway. ‘I, uh… I have to say, the title rather suits you.’

‘Yeah?’ Alfred said, pacing around the office and feeling a headache beginning to sprout in his head. Migraines. They seemed to be visiting, too.

Arthur hummed, fingers fidgeting in his lap. His eyes flickered across the room, landing upon the cane in the corner of the room. A lopsided smile stretched across his lips, eyes brightening.

‘You kept it!’

‘Don’t-’ Alfred sighed, watching Arthur hop off the desk to pick up the cane. ‘Don’t touch that…’

‘It’s been so long…’

Arthur fiddled with the cane in his hands, twisting it this way and that. Again, like it was perfectly natural. Like Arthur had never left to begin with, like he had never nearly died in Alfred’s arms.

‘Is that what you came back for?’ Alfred said, taking a seat at his desk and crossing his arms. Arthur spun the cane in his hands, knocking a nearby bookshelf. They both tensed at the loud bang.

‘Well, no. I came to see you, Alfred.’ Arthur straightened books that had tilted from the impact. ‘Isn’t that what I told you?’ He looked back at Alfred, his expression soft and for once, not mocking him.

Alfred remained quiet, watching as Arthur hesitated and turned away, busying himself with books and trinkets on the bookshelves. The ticking of Alfred’s watch became loud once again, measuring the odd silence between them. He watched Arthur’s steps, balanced and steady. Arms folding comfortably, without pain or complaint. And in the gentle light of the desk lamp, Alfred could see that the bruises on Arthur’s throat had long since faded. Not a mark, not even a staggered footstep to give away that Arthur had been a broken mess not too long ago.

‘Arthur?’

‘Yes, Alfred?’ Arthur spun back towards Alfred.

‘Why did you leave?’

Arthur froze for a moment, as if the question had caught him off guard somehow, though it shouldn’t have. Arthur burst into a nervous chuckle, softly stabbing the cane into the floor as he looked down.

‘Alfred, that was almost three years ago-’

‘Off to England. Tired of staying in bed.’

Arthur furrowed his brows, looking up at Alfred. ‘... Excuse me?’

‘That’s what you wrote. On that flimsy napkin.’ Alfred said. ‘That’s what you wrote. After months of recovering from fatal wounds, after weeks of having just regained use of your leg - before you could even be released from hospital! You tore out your own IV, Arthur!’

‘Yes, that… wasn’t pleasant.’

‘No, you wanna know what’s not pleasant?’ Alfred got up from his chair, approaching Arthur. ‘Carrying someone who might as well have been dead to an ambulance. Waiting outside of the surgery and expecting someone to tell you that they didn’t make it, that you should have brought them sooner. Having them survive, staying by their side, only for them to leave a… a stupid little ‘see you later’ note!’

‘Alfred, you know I didn’t mean it like that-’ Arthur backed into a wall, Alfred realizing just how little space had been left between them. A lump in his throat, Alfred tried to ignore the unsteadiness of his own voice, the pitiful sound it gave.

‘And do you want to know what’s even more unpleasant than that, Arthur? Finding out that… Finding out that your sister was buried in a ditch for the past seven years, only the one person you want to be there for you isn’t there.’ Alfred exhaled shakily, feeling the prick of tears in his eyes. ‘You weren’t there.’

‘I know…’ Arthur spoke softly, that familiar look of pity in his eyes. His hand reached up for Alfred’s shoulder. ‘I know, Alfred. And I’m sorry-’

‘Don’t be.’ Alfred pulled away, stumbling back. He backed into the desk, the knot in his throat painful. ‘It’s… It’s like you said. Almost three years ago, right?’ He gazed at the floor, blinking away tears and feeling far too exposed, far too weak in this state. He slumped back into the chair, watching Arthur approach slowly in the corner of his eye, as if Alfred had been a feral animal of some sort.

Silence fell once again, more uncomfortable than the last. Alfred tried to compose himself, to draw back in the shakiness of his throat, the trembling that had quietly begun to take over. Only with every step Arthur took, Alfred’s throat seemed to grow weaker, as if it could crumble at any moment.

‘You know...’ Arthur’s footsteps disappeared behind Alfred, his voice tactful and soft in his tone. ‘When Yao Wang was arrested, I have to say it… It didn’t exactly feel like a victory. Wouldn’t you say so?’

‘We got him in the end, didn’t we?’ Alfred kept his gaze on the table, noting the coffee stains and cigarette ashes strewn across it. Uneasy with being unable to look at Arthur, and yet fearing the unsteadiness of his own voice.

‘You didn’t seem too happy about it.’ The creaks of the floorboards slowed down.

‘Yeah, well. Things didn’t exactly end neatly.’

Arthur hummed, fingertips touching Alfred’s temples. Alfred flinched and turned his head.

‘What are you-’

Arthur’s hands caught his face, turning it to face forward. ‘Keep your eyes there, love.’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Alfred felt his face warm up, burning where Arthur’s fingers touched.

‘I thought to play a little game.’

‘Now’s a bad time, Arthur.’ Alfred spluttered out, the steadiness in his voice long gone. He sounded weak, fragile. He hated it.

‘Indulge me for a bit.’

‘Maybe I’ve already done too much of that.’ Alfred said, wanting to shift in his seat, to pull away. Only he couldn’t – he worried what Arthur might see in this, what conclusions he would draw from it. Flustered and needing something to do, he glanced at his watch. Midnight. Yao’s execution would be starting about now.

‘Alfred…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Close your eyes for me.’

‘Why?’

‘Try it.’

For something coming out of Arthur’s mouth, it wasn’t particularly convincing. Yet, with those slender fingers holding onto him, as if tuning into a pulse of some kind, Alfred found himself curious. His previous anger seemed to have melted away somehow, replaced by a reluctant wish to indulge him, to play along with his games just a little bit more…

Hesitantly, Alfred closed his eyes, hearing the tiny ticks of his watch. Time passing by, Yao’s life slipping away with every minute. Soon enough, Alfred would be a murderer, too.

Arthur hummed in approval, the pads of his fingertips dragging across skin, back to Alfred’s hairline. Alfred felt a shiver at the touch, though he tried to contain it, to keep this from showing. Arthur’s hands drew over the back of Alfred’s head, smoothing over hair.

‘Do you remember when I told you about my father, Alfred? And I asked you about your childhood, about what you think of whenever you lock away a murderer…’

Fingers snaking through hair, it almost felt as though they were snaking into his mind as well. Alfred pursed his lips, swallowing nervously.

‘Y-Yeah. I remember.’

‘You never told me your answer at the time. But I think I got it.’

‘Really…’ Alfred’s head felt heavy, wanting to drift away.

Arthur hummed. ‘You think… At least there’s one less monster in the world. At least, someone else won’t have to suffer like you did. They won’t have to lose someone and blame themselves for it. It’s a satisfying feeling, to play the hero… isn’t it? Only… you’re still hurting.’

The lump in Alfred’s throat returned, climbing up higher and higher until he thought he wouldn’t be able to speak. Arthur’s hands combed back Alfred’s hair, brushing his fringe away – surely, so that if tears spilled, Arthur could see them. Alfred wouldn’t let it happen.

‘You… sound really confident about that.’ Alfred said, his voice scratchy and aching in his throat. The pricks of tears still in his eyes, he held them back, kept them like he always did.

 ‘I am.’ Arthur let Alfred’s fringe fall back over, softly brushing against his forehead.  ‘And I don’t think you really ever made it out of that case in one piece. I don’t think I did, either.’

‘You don’t say...’ Alfred muttered.

‘But what I’m trying to say, Alfred, is that… well.’

‘Well what?’

‘I thought I could fix myself on my own. I thought going back to England and pretending it never happened might… erase it somehow…’ Arthur’s hands trailed down to Alfred’s shoulders. ‘But I forgot that you would have been doing the same, too.’

Alfred swallowed, the gentle weight of Arthur’s hands somehow heavy on his shoulders. ‘What am I supposed to say to that? It’s done, isn’t it? Just forget about it. I know I did.’ The lie, too, felt heavy.

Arthur tilted his head back. Alfred opened his eyes in surprise, finding emerald green eyes boring into his. Closer than before, softer. And for the first time, Alfred saw a hazel hue in them.

‘I’m… deeply sorry, Alfred.’

‘For what?’ Alfred said, aware that his and Arthur’s breaths were mixing, surely. The thought sent a kind of panic in his veins, a realization that he had surrendered to those eyes somehow, without even noticing.

‘The world’s been tough on you, hasn’t it?’ Fingers trailed across his jaw, Arthur’s palm cupping his cheek. Arthur’s voice was barely a murmur now, only to Alfred it was louder than anything else. ‘I should have been there to catch you…’

‘Are you…’ A reluctant smile tugged at Alfred’s lips. ‘Are you trying to say I fell from the sky or something? Is that supposed to be, like… your pick-up line? That I’m an angel-’

Lips pressed against Alfred’s, chapped and rough on his. Torn, as if bitten in worry. Breath having been stolen from shock, Alfred still found himself kissing back, smoothing over Arthur’s broken lips as if to heal them. Arthur’s fingertips press into his face, holding tighter as his lips parted. Alfred could no longer hear the ticking of the clock, only the beating of his own heart when he realized he had been longing for this – for silence with Arthur, for only needing him there and nothing more. For having him without the colorful words, the masks and the coy smiles. Like a magician’s hat, they meant to distract from the real spectacle, to hide Arthur away.

Alfred reached his hand up to touch Arthur’s, to hold it like he did when Arthur had been bleeding out in the snow – desperately tight and close in a blizzard that wanted to bury them. Fingers only just brushing against Arthur’s hand, Arthur broke away, slowly as if reluctant to do so.

‘I’m… I’m afraid I didn’t… plan on doing that.’ Arthur’s hands slid away from Alfred, face flushed when he pulled away completely.

‘What do mean you…’ Alfred sat up, only to find Arthur already at the doorway, cane in hand. Too far away to reach, too far away to hold onto now.

‘You’re leaving?’

Arthur hesitated, eyes flickering as they tried to meet Alfred’s. ‘I… have some matters to tend to at home. Sorry to disappoint.’ A weak smile tugged at Arthur’s lips, a poor imitation of his previous confidence. He opened the door. ‘Well. I’m off. See you… when the next bloody corpse arrives, I… guess...’

‘Arthur, wait-’ Alfred stood up, somehow afraid that once he walked through that doorway, he would lose him forever.

‘Yes, Alfred?’ Arthur took a small step back towards Alfred, the tiny gesture igniting a cruel kind of hope in Alfred’s chest.

_Don’t leave._

‘I… I don’t understand.’ Alfred said.

Arthur’s eyes held onto his for a moment, a kind of hesitance in them that Alfred hadn’t seen before. ‘I’m not leaving forever, Alfred. Please don’t look at me like that. I’ll be back. I promise, Alfred. I… I only planned on making a short visit. M-My plane leaves in the morning. Really, it’s not…’ Arthur sighed. ‘I don’t think you need another stray in your life, Alfred. You can only put up with so much… I’m afraid you’ll only end up hating me. I’ll be burden. I’ll be worse than any feral stray. You know that.’

‘No, I don’t…’

‘I’m sorry.’ Arthur took a step back, halfway out the doorway. Alfred grabbed his wrist, his heart pounding at the thought of the words he would say next.

‘D-Don’t do it. Don’t go back.’ Alfred spluttered, the air suddenly feeling thick like smoke when Arthur gazed back at him. ‘Stay here. Stay with me.’

‘Alfred, I told you-’

‘I know, I know. You’re insane, you’re a psychopath, you’re a killer in the making. But…But I don’t care if you’re dangerous, or crazy or whatever. Because I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. You’re the… You’re the sanest guy I know. You’re not a stray. You’re not… feral.’

Arthur’s brow piqued up in interest, sending Alfred’s pulse into a nerve-racking throb.

‘I-‘ Alfred swallowed, drawing Arthur closer by the wrist. ‘You’re my sanity, Arthur. I… Do you know how long that cane has been lying against the wall there? How I haven’t polished it since the day you left? The - The crazy kind of bullshit I put the movers through when they forgot to bubble wrap it?’

‘Oh dear…’ Arthur pursed his lips, a smile – a real one – hidden beneath them. Alfred felt his chest warm up at the sight, hope sprouting when Arthur’s feet hesitated and stepped closer. A short chuckle burst out of Alfred.

‘I- I’m the insane one, Arthur. You’re… You’re the anchor. My anchor. And I need you here. Don’t leave me with another goodbye. I’m sick of goodbyes. I just need you here, next to me, picking through my mind because god knows I don’t know how. I… I...’

‘You’re lost without me?’

Alfred blinked, opening his mouth to speak.

‘You’re totally and terribly hopeless without me by your side? You can’t stand the thought of living without me?’

‘Y-Yes, Arthur. Don’t make me give that speech again-’

Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred, burying his face into Alfred’s chest. Alfred stumbled back, chest constricted and elated at the same time. He held Arthur closer, resting his head on Arthur’s. It was quiet, save for the sound of his own heart beating, of Arthur’s slowed breaths against his chest. Without speaking, they knew. Broken as they might be, clipped as their wings might be, they had each other to hold onto, for better or for worse.

* * *

The heavy door groaned as it opened, hands roughly guiding Yao into the room. The first thing that caught his eye was the gurney in the center of the room, black straps hanging down from the sides. Yao felt blood begin to pump in his ears.

_This is it. This is where I’m going to die._

‘Sit up on the gurney and lie down on your back.’ A guard commanded. Yao nodded, seating himself up onto the gurney with shaky hands. He lied down, a fluorescent light glaring down on him. He exhaled slowly, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. The room was cool, clinical… unforgiving.

The guards began to secure the straps on Yao’s legs and arms. Another one around his upper torso, one around his stomach. They were yanked tight, constricting enough so that Yao couldn’t even wiggle for room. His hands clenched and unclenched, aching with restlessness. He had been waiting a long time for this, a long time to leave that dull prison and end his sentence. Only now, Yao couldn’t shake off the urge to run away, to flinch even when the technician dabbed at his arm with rubbing alcohol.

It was at that moment that Yao also had the strange urge to laugh. Perhaps nervousness, perhaps fear… perhaps even the fact that only a few years ago, the scariest thing on Yao’s mind was the idea of facing that interview again, of simply having pointed questions thrown at him. Now, it was death.

A small smile was brimming beneath the surface of his trembling lips, only to die out at the prick of a needle in his arm. The moment was now too real, too present to find any strange humor in it.

Overhead, Yao watched the IV stand draw closer, a clear bag hanging from it. He tried to steady his breath, focusing on the gentle sway on the bag. He knew he was being watched, being judged by the way he held himself, even in his own death. He wondered what kind of man Yao was in the minds of others. A cold, unfeeling killer. Or maybe, a scared kid that had somehow got himself caught up in trouble, and let it take him too far. Perhaps a bit of both. Yao didn’t really care anymore. Whatever he truly was, it didn’t matter. It never did.

The curtains drew from behind the viewing window, faces of strangers watching. Yao could feel the stares, the hatred of those who condemned him, the cold interest of those who studied him. In that moment, he wished there were kind eyes among them, tender eyes like…

_(Ochi chernye…)_

A small lump formed in Yao’s throat. He swallowed, the straps seemingly tighter around him now, suffocating him like coiled snakes. No… He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t cry now. Three years he had cried in secret, three years he had pretended not to care, not to miss him so that others wouldn’t prey on him. He couldn’t start crying now.

Among the witnesses, someone pushed their way through. People reluctantly moved aside, giving way to Kiku as he approached the window. His hands hovering with uncertainty towards the window, perhaps wanting to press against it but too reluctant to do so. It was only when Kiku finally touched the glass that Yao noticed the redness of Kiku’s eyes, the subtle pinch of his brows.

‘Would you like to say any final words?’ A voice asked.

Yao kept his eyes on Kiku, hoping his voice wouldn’t break when he spoke. ‘Yeah… I… I want my brother to know I’m sorry I won’t be there for him anymore. And that… it’s not his fault. I chose this.’

Yao paused, watching the disapproval grow on the strangers' faces. They were expecting formal apologies for his crimes, regrets… But Yao didn’t have any.

One of the guards hovered around Yao uncertainly, as if asking for confirmation. Yao nodded, turning his head away from the window.

The technician pierced the IV bag with a syringe, the clear fluid dripping into it. It washed down the line, into Yao’s arm. He thought of red pouring through it, viscous blood crawling down the line as it once did for him so long ago…

 _(I’m not leaving, myshka_.)

He exhaled shakily and watched the fluorescent light above him flicker gently. The edge of his vision began to blur, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the IV or the tears prickling in his eyes. He tried to blink them away, only each time his vision became dimmer, hazier.

He turned toward the window, expecting to see Kiku still there. Only when he did, Yong Soo’s bloody corpse stood among the witnesses, his eye dripping with dark fluid. Next to him, a man covered in silver needles, his face flayed like ruffled petals. A woman with spider lilies spilling out of her chest. A man with a bouquet of flowers for a head. The woman with burning candles in her womb, the sweet and nostalgic scent of honeysuckle lingering in the air. But the scent only sickened Yao, only tore the ache in his chest further, reminded him of who he had made those corpses for.

_(It’ll be fine, myshka…)_

Yao swallowed, a pain in his throat as he buried his whimper. He could still recall those last weak thuds of Ivan’s heart, the soft breath that had left Ivan’s lips before he died, the weight of Ivan’s head leaning against Yao’s hand. Vivid as if it had only happened yesterday, as if everything had happened in the blink of an eye. As if one moment Yao was terrified of those lilac eyes gazing at him, and the next fearing they would tear away and close forever.

His vision flickered, like a candle being blown out by the wind. Voices wandered around him, Kiku’s hushed words, Jin and Yong Soo’s lively chatter. Katyusha’s trembling voice and Alfred’s commanding one. Drifting away, Yao couldn’t tell which voices were real and which voices weren’t. He only wished he could hear the one voice that wasn’t there, the one he desperately held onto in memory.

The world went dark for Yao, like the final curtain dropping on him. He felt as though he were floating on viscous air, warmth washing over and enveloping him. It started to grow in intensity, growing warmer and piercing his skin like sunlight. He then felt the ground on his back, softer than the gurney he had been lying on before.

‘Yao…’

The voice was close, close enough for Yao to feel his breath still. A hand softly brushed against his cheek, cool to the touch. Something rustled nearby, like plants swaying in the breeze. He reached his hand up, though he couldn’t see it. Someone caught his hand, holding it gently.

‘Open your eyes.’

Yao opened his eyes, a lump in his throat. Even so, a soft smile swept across his lips.

‘I’ve missed you.’ Yao croaked out, not wanting that hand to ever let go.

‘I know. I missed you, too.’

A sob broke out of Yao’s throat, warm tears pooling at his eyes. His breaths became ragged, the smile still on his lips even as he cried. His chest hurt, as if having waited to see those lilac eyes for an eternity. His eyes burned with tears, throat raw with sobs as Ivan leaned down to place a soft kiss on his forehead. The sweetness of it was tinged with pain, with knowing that the world had killed them both.

They had met at such an unlucky hour, in the dark of an alleyway with splatters of red and thoughts led astray. And yet, they lay here now with sunflowers cradling the end of their lives, bringing them to the close of a curtain, and then… the peace they had long been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The text in italics at the beginning is an excerpt from a translation of a Russian poem 'Dark Eyes' by Yevhen Hrebinka.
> 
> So...That's the end of 'Ochi Chernye'! Thank you so much for reading through until the end, and thank you so so much for the comments and support! I hope this was a story worth reading, and that you enjoyed (?) it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Anyways, feel free to leave your much appreciated thoughts in the comments section! And once again, thank you for reading :)


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